


When He was a Girl

by bell (bellaboo), bellaboo, usomitai (bellaboo)



Series: When He was a Girl AU [1]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Genderswap, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-08
Updated: 2009-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-02 04:09:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellaboo/pseuds/bell, https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellaboo/pseuds/bellaboo, https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellaboo/pseuds/usomitai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson wakes up one day as a woman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The One Where They're Girls](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2559) by [thedeadparrot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedeadparrot/pseuds/thedeadparrot). 



> If it takes a village to raise a child, how many does it to complete a fic?
> 
> Teresa11 listened my idea and said “you have to write that.” She was the proverbial last straw, and honestly, I might not have started without that encouragement. This fic would have been different-- worse-- if Briar_pipe hadn’t held my hand from the beginning and pointed me towards the right directions. Savemoony was vicious and evil and cracked the whip over me, forcing me to face and fix the main issues. Jougetsu gave useful suggestions on how to tighten up the narrative and [info]miang used her super-eye to give the fic a vicious proof-reading. Jokersama fielded my medical questions and clued me on the fact that the prostrate isn’t a magical berry (damn it! there goes all my dreams!).
> 
> I must acknowledge Thedeadparrot’s part in giving me the idea (her The One Where They’re Girls fic is what got my mental gears turning) and Dar Williams’ song When I Was a Boy, which inspired the title of the fic.

**Prologue**

Browsing in a gas station, one postcard caught Wilson’s eye: several tanned women in bikinis frolicked on a generic beach. The caption read, “I’m glad you’re not here.”

That ought to get a smirk out of House, at the very least.

After the Tritter case was closed and over with, Wilson had taken a few days off work for a road trip. He told everyone he’d been planning this vacation for the past year, but the real reason was to get a breather from it all.

The cashier, a middle-aged pasty-white man, rang up his order. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

Wilson shook his head. “Just traveling through.”

“What, by yourself?”

Wilson smiled, though he was irked at the reminder. “Some journeys have to be taken alone. I’m a big boy now, I can handle it.”

The cashier titled his head to the side. “It’s harder that way, though. Couldn’t imagine getting through without my girlfriend Jennifer.” Wilson kept on a cheerful expression, though he was more irritated than ever. “She’s my best friend, y’know.”

Wilson tried to imagine saying that about House. It sounded like a joke. Maybe once he could have said that he could depend on House, but that was a long time ago-- before Grace and lies about cortisol and forged prescriptions. “Good for you,” he quipped, refusing to let himself get riled by this random cashier.

“How ‘bout you? You married? Got kids?”

“No, no one would have me, so.” That sounded pretty pathetic, so he added, “It’s probably for the best.”

The cashier shrugged, as if to say, to each their own.

Wilson, wanting to mail the postcard through the mailbox outside the gas station, used the countertop to write a message. He scribbled “Warning: Oncologist May Not Resemble Image” onto the back, but, at a second glance, it didn’t seem as funny as he’d first thought. Besides, the two of them had been so out of synch, House might think that the whole thing was stupid.

He pocketed the postcard.

Starting tomorrow, he’d step back into routine, one that Wilson couldn’t imagine ever changing. He’d work the same job until retirement, he’d remain a bachelor, and he’d continue to feel alienated from his one friend.

“You know any good restaurants around here?” Wilson asked the cashier. He might as well enjoy the last few hours he had before heading back to Princeton-Plainsboro.

“Um, there’s a Denny’s--”

“I was thinking of something a little different,” Wilson said.

The cashier laughed. “If it’s different you want, I know just the place. Everything on the menu is raw, it’s like nothing you’ve seen before.”

If this was going to be the biggest change in his life, he might as well go all the way. “How do I get there?”

 

**PART I**

**day 01**

All of Wilson ached. His muscles were sore, his limbs felt abused, and even his organs seemed out of place.

His sleep-addled mind didn’t know what to make of it. It could be from the traveling, Wilson thought, though a short road trip shouldn’t cause this much upheaval to his system. Maybe it was food poisoning; Wilson never did take well to radical changes in cuisine.

On top of it all, he was getting a headache.

With some trepidation he rolled to the edge of the bed. All of him protested and he couldn’t quite find his footing. He stumbled and ended up walking along the wall, one hand against it to keep his balance.

Flicking on the switch in the bathroom, he squinted at the onslaught of light. He didn’t need to see for the following operation-- it was more habit than anything-- and he groped along the counter. There. It was a twist, pop, and swallow to get the Advil down and, as he did with every pain killer he took, he thought about House. Sad as it was, this felt like the closest Wilson would get to him.

Wilson’s vision started to return. In the glare of the fluorescent light, he seemed pale yellow and wrong, somehow. He blinked at his reflection in the large mirror. Was it his imagination, or was his waist wider?

Wilson rubbed his eyes, but when he looked again, it wasn’t just his hips that were off. His breasts were more prominent than they ought to be. Before he’d been confused, but it was now with some horror that he touched them. He’d felt thousands of breasts like his, as a lover and as a doctor, but never on his own body.

He was seeing clearly now.

Shocked, he fell onto the edge of the bathtub behind him.

“I always knew that it could be worse,” he commented wryly to the woman staring back at him.

\-----

Still sitting on the edge of the bathtub, Wilson performed a standard physical exam on himself. He checked his eyesight, hearing, and swallowing mechanism. Fingers on his pulse, he counted his heart rate-- it was elevated, but that could be due to his anxiety.

Aside from his sudden onset of womanhood, everything seemed to be in order.

Of course, if he was delusional, his own senses were not to be trusted. Wilson half-hoped this was all in his head, though he couldn’t decide which was worse-- being female or being crazy. But his senses were all that he had to go on.

The more he looked, the more changes he found: a different shape to his wrists, paler lips, a smaller nose, and what his first ex-wife would have called ‘thunder thighs.’ Even his eyebrows had thinned out; that alone made him feel vulnerable.

There was one last thing to check.

With a shiver, Wilson removed his boxers. He didn’t even want to look, so he closed his eyes and let his fingers feel out the parts he expected to find. And, indeed, it was all there, cold and clammy: mon pubis, labia majora, labia minora. Probing revealed the entrance to a vagina and, above that, a urethra. He had a complete package.

The muscles between his legs began to clench. What _was_ that? It didn’t quite hurt, it kind of felt like he had to pee--

Oh.

That might be it.

Eyes still closed, he fumbled to lower the toilet seat and sit on it, back rigid. How did this work? He was in the right position, but nothing was coming out and his muscles were still constricted. Being uptight like this couldn’t be helping. He leaned forward, elbows on his thighs, and tried flexing.

A trickle came out and nothing more. Wilson tried again, pushing harder. A steady stream came out and the tightening was gone. He stood up, ready to pull his boxers back on, but stopped when a wetness trailed down the inside of his thigh.

He’d forgotten that women had to clean up afterwards.

“Didn’t have to just be a woman, nooo,” he muttered to himself. “Had to be a _hygiene clueless_ woman.”

Wilson wiped himself up with a dozen or so pieces of toilet paper. Feeling dirty, he scrubbed his hands under the faucet, but then he had to flush afterwards and thus wash his hands a second time.

Come to think of it, maybe what he needed was a good washing. He stepped into the shower and turned the water on as hot as he could bear and stood there. Nothing. Grabbing a bar of soap, he tried scrubbing himself, fast, over his ribcage and stomach, not wanting to touch his genitals again.

He was dismayed, but not surprised, to discover that water and soap could not correct erroneous chromosomes.

Now what?

What he’d have liked, if he weren’t petrified by the thought of going out and being recognized, was access to technology that could reveal what was going on inside. Did he now have fallopian tubes? Was he now more susceptible to ovarian cancer? A quick self-examination revealed no nodules.

Wilson decided to call it a night. Maybe sleeping would make this all better. He dried himself off and put back on his boxers. But going around topless like this was obscene, wasn’t it? Just because he’d had a spontaneous changed sex didn’t mean he had to be _inappropriate_.

He found a McGill sweatshirt bulky enough to hide his new shapeliness and keep his nipples from peeking through. Only then did he swallow a couple of sleeping pills and crawled into his bed, hair wet and strangely exhausted.

 

**day 02**

Wilson woke up the next morning still full of aches and still a female.

Now that he was going to be walking around, Wilson adopted a pair of pants. He didn’t want to be faced with his legs’ change in shape and size. Not to mention how embarrassing it was to be female _and_ have hairy legs-- he didn’t want to shave, per se, but he didn’t want to think he was slacking on his looks.

Wilson fired off vague emails to his secretary and Cuddy about how he wouldn’t be in due to a bout of the common cold. Wilson hated canceling appointments with his patients, but what could he do? He was in no state to treat them.

That done, Wilson turned to research. Because he couldn’t go outside and, god forbid, be _recognized_, he was limited to his laptop and wireless connection.

What Wilson wanted was to find House. If there was one person who could get to the bottom of this strange malady, it was his sorta kinda best friend; pity about the “sorta kinda” part.

Even after the apology, which Wilson hoped was sincere, it was hard to trust House. It was one thing to say sorry-- a big step for House-- but it was another altogether to change your actions. It wasn’t about the addiction anymore, though that still worried Wilson. It was how he couldn’t be sure that House wouldn’t throw him to the four winds again the next time things got shaky.

Which was why Wilson hesitated to turn to House.

But the internet would have answers, right?

Google turned up porn and articles about hermaphroditic polar bears.

The New England Journal of Medicine came up with articles on how sex affected various diseases, as well as the psychosomatic effects of sex changes.

What would House do? Probably try playing with himself; his curiosity would override any horror. Wilson smiled to himself at the image, but kept that line of thought from developing any further-- he’d always thought it dangerous to think of House sexually.

When diagnosing, House started with patient history. Wilson had no genetic predisposition, as far as he knew, for sudden sex conversions. Nor had he engaged in any recent behavior, such as a surgery, that would induce such a transformation. Something he’d caught, then?

Wilson got up, deciding that this was ridiculous. House was the best at medical mysteries and might be the only one that could figure this out. So House was somewhat unreliable and Wilson was more than a bit embarrassed at what had happened to him. But he ought to be able to depend on House to help him with at least this much.

When he realized that his feet were an inch too small for his sneakers, Wilson knew that he had made the right decision. The sooner he put an end to this madness, the better.

\-----

If nothing else, House’s expression almost made this nightmare worth it. Almost.

“It’s as if you’ve never seen the fairer sex before.” Humor was essential in gaining the upper hand. Moreover, it would serve to snap House out of his shock.

“A week-long sex change, I think that’s a record. Tell me, did the basement get as convincing a renovation as the upper floors?” House’s tone was dubious, as though he were waiting for the punch line. “If this is what you were up to, why make up crap about road trips and colds? Did you think no one would _notice_?”

Hearing House mock him, Wilson realized how much he’d missed him during the past few days. Despite all his misgivings and doubts, Wilson did care for House. Probably too much, but that’s how things were.

Wilson walked into the apartment and threw his winter coat onto the nearest chair. It was odd; he’d done this a dozen times, but even such a simple movement felt different in this body. “It’s a bit more complicated than that. You up for a new case?”

Wilson turned around and noticed that House’s glance had been directed at his own behind.

House was staring at his _ass_ and Wilson couldn’t think about that now.

“However complicated it was, gotta say, they did a bang-up job.” And now House was eyeing him all over. That was unnerving. Or maybe what was unnerving was how flattered Wilson felt. Being looked at by House like this wasn’t supposed to feel _good_.

More self-conscious than ever, Wilson exclaimed, “I didn’t do this! It _happened_!”

They ended up in the kitchen, with House on a stool and Wilson, too nervous to sit down, leaning against the sink counter. The more he told, the more relieved he felt. He wasn’t alone in this any more.

The way House kept trying to get an eyeful was still disquieting, but, if nothing else, it confirmed that he indeed was endowed with a female body. Perhaps he could cross off ‘crazy’ from the list of causes.

“Am I supposed to believe this?” House asked.

Or maybe the both of them were going insane. At least he’d have company.

“You want more evidence than this?” Wilson waved at himself.

House leaned back, cupping his chin with his hands. “If I could get a closer look--”

Wilson sighed. “Just figure out what happened to me, okay? With a minimum of innuendo.”

“Sounds like an infectious disease to me,” House mused. “An STD, maybe? Kidding, kidding. Or maybe not. You’re going to have to tell me everything you did on this road trip.” He did not, of course, ask for information previous to that. House always kept tabs on the people in his life, especially Wilson.

House wanted to run tests on him, but Wilson still refused to go anywhere. They did what they could in the apartment itself, like collecting urine and blood samples. House dropped those off at the hospital to be examined by the labs.

Like Wilson, House didn’t have any articles lying around on the spontaneous sex-changing phenomenon, but he’d had a lifetime hobby of hunting zebras and his library reflected that. Wilson had browsed through House’s collection before, but never for something regarding his own health. It wasn’t quite as fun when he himself was the zebra.

Wilson worked with the English and French sources while House took on everything else. “You think we’ll find something here?” Wilson asked.

“Doubt it.” House said, not even looking away from his reading.

House’s concentration reassured Wilson. In fact, despite House’s frequent jokes at Wilson’s expense, his reaction was overall relieving. He seemed to be serious about figuring this out.

Now that they were working on this together, Wilson didn’t know why he’d hesitated so much to ask for House’s help. Just because their relationship had been rocky ever since Wilson had moved out didn’t mean that he couldn’t depend on House.

Around four in the morning, Wilson fell asleep. He must have, because one moment he was reading a1974 French Algerian paper on desert snakes and the next he was drooling on a photo of sand dunes.

Half-awake, he could feel something warm brush against his hair, fingers rubbing light circles around the back of his head. Wilson turned so as to expose more of his neck to that touch. The pressure moved to the base of his cranium, massaging away Wilson’s stress and anxiety. Who was doing this? Wasn’t he supposed to be doing research over at House’s?

His eyes flew open.

He was indeed at House’s.

The massage continued. Wilson, unsure of what to do or even how to react, stayed frozen. He couldn’t let House know that he’d woken up. It’d be embarrassing for both of them and, Wilson was nonplussed to realize, he didn’t want House to stop. He hadn’t felt this safe since before he could remember and yet, at the same time, it was making him warm--

That thought made him stand up at once.

Letting House caress him was one thing. Getting excited over it was another.

One second House’s hand hovered over where Wilson’s head had been and in the next, he was rubbing it against the side of his pants. “Your hair is thicker,” House said, looking away.

Wilson ran his hand through his own hair. “I know.” He didn’t know what had just happened or how he felt about it. And he had no idea what House was up to, being so affectionate in secret. “We should uh, get back to the books.”

The tests, when they arrived, revealed that Wilson’s hormones were in average condition for a female his age. In fact, his FSH levels indicated that he close to menstruating. “Ought to get myself some tampons,” he forced himself to joke.

House tried on an expression that was too innocent to be real and then, unable to stop himself, he snickered. “Too late,” he said, pulling out a pack of extra-large pads with wings from his backpack. He threw it at Wilson.

“Hardy har har.” Wilson caught the package and hoped that he wouldn’t come to need it.

 

**day 03**

Beaming with pride, House dumped a pile of printed pages over the journal Wilson was reading. Wilson jumped, jittery from the caffeine that had gotten him through thirty-six hours of fruitless reading. “There.”

On one side was either abstract art or a creative depiction of DNA strands. The rest of it was a mess of gibberish. Wilson was too cranky to deal with silliness. “Since when are you fluent in… whatever this is?”

“I’m fluent in _all_ languages known to man. And woman.” House sat on the couch armrest opposite from Wilson. “It’s the advantage to being an ex-military brat. Don’t you want to know what it says?”

“I figure you’ll get to it when you feel like it and not a moment before.”

“Were you always this flippant, or is it a side-effect of acquiring a second X chromosome?”

Wilson smiled. “Always this flippant. Ready yet?”

“Yeah, all right.” House nodded at the papers in Wilson’s hands. “According to that, you picked up a virus common in fish and amphibians, but rare in humans, that induces sex changes.”

“It does _not_ say that.” Wilson flipped through the pages, skimming the occasional note and translation House had jotted in the margins. They included words like “chromosome” and “interspecies.” “That is the single dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“It does too say that. What did you do to get frog germs?”

Wilson threw the stack of papers onto the table. “I slept with all the frogs I could find.”

“You only have to _kiss_ the frogs to get the princess, Wilson!” House made smooching sounds with his lips. “C’mon, no scuba-diving? No petting zoos?”

“Seriously, House, this is idiotic. If you think I’m in a mood to play--”

“No food you shouldn’t have eaten?”

At first Wilson glared at him for being this persistent in his prank, but then he remembered something. “I--” Wilson buried his face in his hands. “I ate at this hip-and-upcoming restaurant. Raw clownfish. If this is a joke, House, I’m killing you.”

“It gets worse.”

Wilson groaned. “Of course.”

“The virus is unable to maintain itself in a human host, so the effects are temporary. It’ll last three days, maybe a week, tops.”

Wary, Wilson asked, “You swear?”

House held up a single pinky. “Pinky swear,” he said in mock-solemnity.

Wilson’s sigh could be described as one of relief, but that wouldn’t begin to cover how he was feeling. A tumult of emotions exploded in him in, from freedom to happiness to a hint of worry that House might wrong. It ended up being translated as a high-pitched, chopped-up laugh. “Thank god.”

“Yeah, woohoo,” House slumped off the armrest and onto the couch itself. “I say it’s a pity, though. You don’t make for a bad woman.” House’s gaze traveled all over Wilson with something more than pure medical interest.

Wilson flushed again, as he had been these past few days every time House paid him a little _too_ much interest. Wilson turned to humor, as that was safe territory for the two of them. “Maybe we should make the most out of it.”

And once Wilson said it, the realization hit him: he _did_ want to make the most of it. Wilson blushed, but the blood to his face drained away at once because he also _knew_ the reason why. This might be the closest he’d ever get to House and Wilson wanted that, even if it was only a physical, and not an emotional, proximity.

God, how desperate and fucked up of him.

House’s eyes widened and he pressed up against the armrest, as if to increase the distance between them. Wilson saw the alarm there. “Let’s not get carried away; you’re no Carmen Electra.”

“Yeah,” Wilson blurted, and got up. “No carrying away. So, um, I’ll get us beer, to celebrate, you know--”

He was sprinting towards the kitchen, as if he could run away from the mortification, when House said, almost timidly, “We could think of it as an experiment.”

Wilson almost tripped, he was so surprised. He didn’t hear that tone often from House, but he recognized it: vulnerability. Well. That was unexpected. “An experiment?” Wilson repeated.

For a split second, House seemed embarrassed, looking down at the carpet. In the next, he was looking up at Wilson again, eyebrows waggling. But he betrayed his nervousness in how tightly he gripped his cane. Wilson was surprised the wood didn’t snap in half. “In the name of science! How convincing a woman are you _really_?”

Tentative, Wilson moved towards him. He maintained the jocular tone because he knew that if either one of them admitted to having any reasons for doing this beyond curiosity or amusement’s sake, this would go no further. “Well, it _would_ be a shame to not go on a test drive.”

“Um,” House said, eyes widening again, but this time Wilson saw the desire there as well. “Um, yeah, it would. Damn shame.”

Still not sure whether he was misreading the signs, Wilson lowered himself so that he almost came in contact with House.

The part of Wilson’s common sense not knocked out by the caffeine and giddiness warned him that this was _not_ a good idea, but even so, Wilson licked his lips. This was a once-in-a-chance opportunity that could vanish by tomorrow. “An experiment, right?”

House moved his head a fraction of an inch, as if that was the closest he could get to nodding. “Right.”

Where to even begin? Heart hammering, Wilson patted House’s thigh. “Okay.”

 

\-----

Deciding to sleep with your best friend of ten years is one thing; going about it is altogether different, especially if you’re dealing with a new body.

House wanted to explore all of Wilson, who half-suspected that his meticulous surveying was more a substitute for not getting a MRI than it was a desire to sniff out Wilson’s hairy armpit. “Is that _absolutely_ necessary?” Wilson asked, half-exasperated, half-fond.

House took another deep whiff indicating that, indeed, this was necessary. “You smell different,” he said, as if it were an explanation. “I’d thought so before and-- yeah, you do. If you stick it out as a woman for any longer, we’ll have to get you Secret deodorant.”

“I’ll be sure to pick up a stick.”

From there on out, House stuck to exploration of a tactile nature, feeling along the small of his back, the rise between his ass and his thighs. All these ‘scientific’ observations were making Wilson horny as hell and soon he was squirming.

As if he could sense Wilson’s impatience, House thumbed him along his pelvis “I bet you didn’t touch yourself once.”

Wilson tried to angle himself so that House would touch something that didn’t leave him breathless and frustrated, but House was having none of that. “Might have,” Wilson said, leaving out how the only touching he’d done was to see if he had all the exterior female components.

House chuckled, trailing his hand towards Wilson’s navel and away from Wilson’s crotch. Wilson groaned. “Stop,” he commanded, swinging his leg and twisting so that he was straddling House, “teasing me.” House leaned his elbows back onto the pillows, grinning and waiting to see what would happen next.

Wilson gave grinding his hips against House’s cock a go, and that got his blood pounding, but if he was going to do this, he wanted to go the whole nine-yards. Figuratively, anyway. “Condom?”

House produced one, along a tube of KJ Jelly. Good, he was as paranoid as Wilson. He wasn’t going to have to justify his want for protection. House himself applied the lube and put on the condom. Wilson preferred it that way. Even if they _were_ in the middle of sex, putting his hands onto House’s cock was more up-close and personal than he was ready for.

Wilson took a deep breath and pierced himself onto House’s dick. His discomfort at being stretched out was soon overtaken by the pain of being torn. He stifled a groan, this one not of pleasure.

“So you _did_ have a cherry to pop,” House said, with about as much sympathy as Wilson could expect from him.

Wilson understood now how his high school sweetheart had felt about her first time-- “I preferred ‘Cats.’” Changing positions didn’t help. Neither one suggested giving the sex up, though Wilson suspected that House came as fast as possible. Or at least he hoped he had, because if that were all the endurance he had, Wilson had one more reason to pity House’s girlfriends of past and future.

So Wilson was surprised that, after he rolled off, House sneaked his hand into Wilson’s crotch and started to stroke him. “I have a reputation to maintain,” House said “Half the hospital thinks we’re sleeping together, and if you tell them that I’m crap in bed, they’ll believe you.”

House could come up with all the excuses he wanted, but Wilson saw through him: he hadn’t wanted to leave him unsatisfied. Wilson felt such a surge of affection that he kissed him for the first time, open-mouthed, along his collar bone

 

**day 04**

The phone rang.

“Get it,” Wilson mumbled. “I can’t, still a girl.” He groped about to pull the covers back over himself. It was foolish of him, he knew, feeling like he still had anything to hide or, for that matter, that he had anything to hide in the first place.

“Thank god,” House said, reaching for the phone. “Wasn’t keen on waking up to a naked _dude_. What. Why, yes, I was clueless of the fact that it’s paste ten. And, no, I don’t know what Wilson is up to, probably in bed with a fever of a hundred and ten, what else would keep him from work?” He hung up.

“Cuddy?” Wilson asked.

“She thinks we’re up to something,” House said, turning towards Wilson.

“We’re not.” Wilson paused. “Not intentionally, anyway.”

House was pulling the cover away and Wilson let him. “I still think it’s a pity you’ve got to turn back.”

“A tremendous pity, yes.”

“Seriously. You’ve been upgraded to boobs. What more do you want?”

“My balls.”

“Both come in pairs and start with ‘b.’”

“Somehow, I’m not convinced.”

“Well, you should at least try keeping this ass.”

“Not that I don’t appreciate the first compliment you’ve given me in years, but don’t you that’s a mismatch? Like an elephant’s tail on a penguin?”

“Who cares, you oughtta keep your assets.” Wilson groaned, in part because of the pun, but mostly because House had chosen to punctuate his remark by biting his behind.

Talking about what was coming made Wilson uncomfortable. On the one hand, he was dying to go back to being a man and resume his life. And he’d be glad to be rid of the fear, lodged in the back of his mind, that he’d never be normal again.

At the same time, Wilson thought, fidgeting as House tasted him along his spine, he liked this… thing, whatever it was, that they had going. It was pleasant. The sex was nice, if a bit clumsy, and the faux-intimacy it brought was better.

Wilson knew that the minute he reverted to his real self, they’d never lie together like this again. They might not even speak of it, unless you counted House giving explicit descriptions to coworkers of what Wilson was like in bed that everyone would take as a joke. Even if Wilson went back to not being attracted to House, he’d still miss this.

“You’re thinking too hard,” House whined.

Wilson translated that as: get out of your headspace and play with me. He rolled his eyes and left the thinking for later.


	2. Chapter 2

**PART II**

**day 07**

A day later, and Wilson was still a woman.

Two days after that, he was a woman still.

“Not that I’m complaining,” House said, “but it’s been five days. Couldn’t you hurry it up?”

“Right-o, thanks for reminding me. I’ll get right on it.” Wilson replied.

Wilson didn’t have the courage to go back to the hotel in this state and House was glad to keep a free sex partner around, so Wilson had stayed with him. Wilson did not, however, feel all that welcome, given that seventy-two hours after his transformation, House had forbidden him from sleeping in his bed. Wilson could go back to being a male at any moment and House said he wasn’t one to take so big a ‘risk’ as to leave him naked in his bed overnight.

“If nothing else, you _are_ doing science a great service.”

Without missing a beat and without meaning it, Wilson said, “You’re sick.”

“And you’d be doing an even _greater_ service if--”

“I already said no to the photos, House.”

Every day or so, House insisted on doing all the tests they could using the technology available in the apartment. Wilson had been giving up blood, urine, hair and skin follicles, and other assorted samples so that House could tote them off to the hospital and analyze them to his heart’s content. After the first set of results, which affirmed that he was very average for a woman, Wilson hadn’t cared to find out more.

But House wanted to know, and it was such an easy way of making him happy that Wilson gave in. This was all done, of course, with the understanding that House would never reveal the information to anyone ever.

“But without any photos there’ll be no eviden--”

“Precisely.”

“Cuddy’s still asking for you, by the way, and it’s _really annoying_. Be a man and answer your cell phone! If she asks why you’re all squeaky, tell her that you got kicked in the nads.”

“_You_ be a man,” Wilson said, all mature. “This shouldn’t last more than a couple of days and then she’ll get on your case for something else. The list is never-ending, after all.”

House poked his tongue out at him and Wilson grinned back.

House left with the samples. Wilson rubbed at his arm-- one other perk to being a male again would be not having to stick a needle up his arm every day, though House would want an ‘after’ blood sample as well.

Wilson would also be able to go back to work. Lazing around was fine for the first two hours or so but having nothing to do was setting him on edge.

To pass the time, Wilson flipped through all the printouts they had on the virus. He’d already been through them some thousand times, even going so far as to use a dictionary to puzzle out a word here and there, but he couldn’t resist looking again.

He’d discussed with House the evolutionary benefits to such a virus. Species with a built-in ability to change sex did so for reproductive reasons, though Wilson thought it odd that a species could suffer such a decline in the numbers of only one sex that the other one would have to take on its role--

Wilson dropped all the pages.

What if he had failed to change back not because he was a slow-poke, as House kept calling him, but because--

It was crazy. They’d used condoms, every single time.

But those were known to fail.

It was crazy. Impossible.

But what if he _were_?

Wilson bolted to the telephone stand, ripping open the drawers one after the other. Damn it, why couldn’t House keep his yellow pages near his phone, like any other sane person?

He couldn’t have a kid. Wilson was childless to this day for a _reason_, and that was because he’d always known, deep inside, that he wasn’t suited to the task, even when he’d deluded himself otherwise.

A kid in his hands would be an unhappy one.

The yellow pages weren’t on the living room bookshelves either.

The first two times he got married, he’d intended to have kids. He wanted to be one of those guys in the 1950s car commercials, with the slicked-back hair, pipes, and smiles as if they were masters of the universe. Wilson wanted that and the wives and the kids seemed to be an essential part of the deal.

But the timing had never been right. He had to finish his residency, complete his fellowship, and get in as an attending at his dream hospital. And the next thing he knew, he was having an affair. He told Kristin. Their marriage fell into shambles and with that all ideas of procreating went out the window.

Wilson scoured all the titles on the shelves in the other rooms but still no phone book. The kitchen and bedroom drawers were equally lacking.

He was shaking, but he didn’t care-- he had to find them.

The same thing happened with his second wife, Bonnie. Bonnie loved kids and wanted three of her own. Wilson meant to give them to her. But every time they sat down to have That Talk, he had to explain that he was still not at a point in his career in which he could expand his family. Then House had the infarction and all his personal plans were postponed.

By the time he met Julie, he’d realized that the time would never be right. He was too ambitious and he had House to look after, which was in and of itself like taking care of a child. If he did have a kid, he would never be so much as a father as he would be a photograph on the mantle-- someone his wife would tell stories about, as mythical as a fairytale. Julie, who had her own career, also wanted to remain childless.

He’d made this decision already. No kids.

He found the yellow pages, at last, hiding behind a couch. It was spliced open and pressed up against the wall. It was a ridiculous place for it to be, and god, the man that put it there was the father of the child he wasn’t pregnant with.

Armed with the book, he went to the telephone.

“Irvington Clinic, how may I help you?”

His mouth went dry. “I was wondering, do you have an opening to administer a medical abortion?”

 

\-----

Wilson drove with House’s car; his own was still at the hotel. It wasn’t right, but then again, Wilson didn’t care either that his license looked false either. A woman with a man’s ID! He was in a stolen car with a seemingly stolen license and it didn’t matter. He had to do this and he had to do it now.

Because while he himself might have already made his decision, if House knew that Wilson might be pregnant-- well, if he himself wasn’t suited to being a father, imagine House!

House might want the kid, just for the wanting and not the actual having. Wilson wasn’t going to be _pregnant_ for another nine months and have a child in order to satisfy one of House’s whims and then have to do all the raising himself.

Wilson’s hands were hurting. Perhaps, he realized, because he was gripping the wheel as hard as possible. He forced himself to take a few deep breaths and loosen his grip. He had to stay composed and not draw attention to himself.

It’d be better if House never knew. Otherwise, Wilson would forever be the one who deprived him of fatherhood and it wasn’t as if they didn’t already have enough issues. If House never found out, no harm, no foul. And if he wasn’t pregnant, getting the mifepristone and misoprostol would make no difference.

 

\-----

Taptaptaptaptaptaptap--

A middle-aged woman across the room frowned at him. Wilson tamed his foot, but he could still feel the jitteriness within, his heart pumping out extra blood. If only he could get this over with! Then he wouldn’t have to think about it anymore.

“Mrs. Wilson?” He startled at the sound of his name. “I hope we haven’t kept you waiting too long.” For over two hours, he did not say, and he stretched his mouth in what was more a grimace than a smile. “Dr. Stephenson is ready to see you now.”

Wilson wondered if this secretary knew of his request or if she could see it written all over his face. Not that he should be worrying about other people’s opinions at a time like this.

Dr. Stephenson turned out to be a sharp, organized woman. “Now, Mrs. Wilson, you’ll have to answer some questions before we get started. I understand that you’d like a medical abortion, but you might like to know about our other options--”

“No,” Wilson asserted and then cringed at his rudeness. “It’s alright, I’m already familiar with the different procedures.”

“And how many weeks pregnant are you, Mrs. Wilson?”

“Two or three… days,” he admitted.

She was surprised. “And you already know?”

“Not-- so much. But I have strong reason to suspect it.”

She frowned. “Mrs. Wilson,” and he wished she’d stop calling him that, it kept making him think that one of his wives was there and that they were referring to _them_. And why did everyone keep assuming he was married? “We prefer to be sure--”

“If you need to run a blood test, I’ll wait.” He’d come here because it was a private clinic. If the client could pay up, which Wilson could-- he’d have to do it without insurance, since he didn’t think he could justify a male getting an abortion-- they’d be more than willing to go along with his needs.

“You should also know that if it the medication doesn’t take, you’ll have to return for a surgical abortion.” Wilson nodded. “You’ll also have to meet with our therapist--”

“No,” he said, emphatic. He knew that this was a routine procedure and that he’d have his own patients do the same. But he didn’t want to doubt himself. If he let the questions start, he’d never stop second-guessing himself.

“Are you sure that you don’t want more time to reconsider? A few days isn’t enough--”

“If I didn’t want it before, why would I want it now?” He snapped.

Her expression froze into something cold and impersonal “Someone will be in to take your blood.”

Wilson waited for the results, going back and forth between the clinic waiting room and a nearby café. He tried to distract himself with magazines, but he couldn’t look at photos of women without comparing himself to them. He couldn’t look at the men either because they reminded him of what he wasn’t. As for the photos of children, those made him close the magazine altogether.

When he’d managed to space out enough in the waiting room to forget how bad his back hurt from the plastic seats, a nurse came up to him. “Mrs. Wilson--”

His phone rang-- it was House. “Just a second,” he apologized.

“Wilson.” He knew that tone. It was clinical, impersonal. It was the voice he used on patients to deliver bad news.

Fearing the worst: “Yeah?”

“You’re pregnant.” He then hung up; typical Housian bed-manner, that.

“Jesus,” Wilson curled over his legs. “Okay. Okay.”

“Mrs. Wilson?” The nurse asked. “We have your results--”

“Yeah. I know.” Why did it now seem all the more, and terrifyingly so, real? Perhaps because now it wasn’t a secret any longer; Wilson would now have to take House’s opinions into account. While Wilson might not end up agreeing with House, he had to at least hear him out.

He faked a smile. “My ‘husband’ told me. We’ll have to put a rain check on that abortion.”

\-----

The drive back was awful. Five o’clock and it was already dark, thanks to the damned New Jersey winter. Wilson couldn’t concentrate on the road and kept swerving. People angered by his erratic movements kept honking and one driver, upon seeing who was at the wheel, yelled, “Learn to drive, bitch!”

He’d never been called a bitch before.

Damn House! If he hadn’t found out, Wilson would be one pill closer to being normal again. He might have even transformed _back_ by now. But, no, now that House knew, they had to talk about it.

Worse, he was going to have to _think_ about it.

Wilson might even start feeling guilty-- crazy, it wasn’t even alive, seeing how it couldn’t survive on its own. It was nothing more than a bunch of cells dividing over and over and over again. It was like a cancer. And he wasn’t going to let himself feel guilty over killing a tumor.

Wilson almost missed the highway exit into Princeton-Plainsboro and had to make a sharp turn in order to get in. At this rate, he’d end up dead. At least then he wouldn’t have to worry about the fetus anymore.

What if all this thinking and talking convinced him to keep it? Wilson might let his loneliness get the better of him and opt in favor of the baby. Talk about overkill. If you’re lonely, get a pet. Or a girlfriend. Don’t have a _baby_.

He had to stop thinking like this. It wasn’t going to happen. If House were to want the kid, Wilson would have to say no. And mean it.

The lights in House’s apartment, to Wilson’s surprise, were off. He should have been back from work by now. A quick check inside confirmed that House wasn’t around. Wilson called him. “Where are you?”

“Uhhhh, yeah,” House answered. “Can’t go home, there’s this guy here and he’s bad. Very bad. No arms, no legs, and he’s very definitely going to die in the next five minutes if I don’t--”

“Bullshit,” Wilson said. There was silence on the other end. “Look, just get back here.”

He half-expected House not to come back at all, but ten minutes later he heard his motorcycle driving up to the curb. Wilson resisted the urge to run to the door-- that was a little too wifely for his taste. The whole pregnancy thing was enough, really.

House banged the door open and threw his helmet and leather jacket onto the nearest chair with an edginess Wilson recognized all too well. His heart sank. But what else could he expect? Of course House would have been hitting the Vicodin.

“I’m dying for a drink,” House said, zooming, in his thumping way, towards the liquor cabinet. “Something crystal clear and yet _not_ composed of H2O. Dying, I tell you! What about you, what are you--”

“I can’t drink!” Wilson exclaimed, exasperated.

House stopped in the middle of opening a bottle of vodka. “Oh. Okay. A cup! I need a cup!” He hobbled off towards the kitchen.

Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose and followed him. “I’m not-- it just doesn’t seem right.”

“I--” House interrupted him, only to pause and take a shot, “do not want to know. Wow.” He held up his glass and admired it. “That’s _strong_.”

Wilson felt very, very cold.

“Leave me out of it.” House poured himself another shot. “Whatever you do, I don’t want to know.”

“I went out today to get mifepristone and misoprostol.” Wilson enunciated, wanting to make sure that House caught all the implications. He watched as House winced, grabbing the back of his head as if it hurt.

But House blinked away the grimace. “Good. I’ll pick out a ‘congratulations on killing your spawn’ card. Think CVS will have it or will I have to order it online?”

This wasn’t at all what Wilson had been expecting. “You don’t care,” he said, hoping for a sign that he was wrong. He knew that House thought first for himself, but he didn’t believe that he’d be _this_ self-centered.

House took one last shot and closed off the bottle. “It’s not so much that I don’t care, it’s that what I think doesn’t matter, does it? I’m not having anything to do with it either way.” He went away again, this time in direction of his bedroom.

Wilson took a few deep breaths before going after him. House had made himself comfortable in his bed, lights off. Wilson turned them back on and asked, “Do you want the kid or not?”

House squeezed his eyes shut. “Jesus Christ, Wilson, can’t you fucking let it go? I can’t deal with this. You do what you want. Kill it. Have it and raise it to be a Hare Krishna. Just fucking leave me out of it.”

“You’re going to turn _away_ from this?”

House sat up. “Look, I did the responsible thing-- I used condoms! Lots of condoms! What more do you want?”

“To not dump this all on me! This shouldn’t be happening to me either! Hell, I didn’t ask to become a woman in the first place! But I’m facing facts, at least.”

They glared at each other for a few seconds, Wilson with his hands on his hips and House with his arms crossed. But then House seemed to lose his energy and he sank back onto the mattress. “You know,” he said with some melancholy, looking at the ceiling, “Stacy and I never meant to have kids. We were going to have a strict no-kid zone. We would have sucked as parents and who deserves that? Some people were never meant to procreate.”

“I’m scared too,” Wilson admitted. “Of how I’d be as-- as a dad.”

“Wilson.” House covered his eyes, his face. “How many times do I have to say this? Leave me out of this one. Get your scissors and cut me out of the picture.”

Wilson ran his hand over his face, trying to collect himself. If he was ever going to get through to House, it wouldn’t be tonight. “I get it. Look, I’m-- I’m going. If you change your mind--”

“Stop pushing this,” House said, and Wilson couldn’t tell if the vodka had thickened voice or if he was begging.

“If you change your mind,” Wilson repeated, “I’ll be at the Serena hotel. You can find me under my last name.” House showed no reaction, pretending to be asleep. “We can talk later, if you want.”

“Oh, god,” House moaned, burying his head under his pillow.

 

\-----

On his way out, Wilson wrote down the hotel name on a piece of paper and left it next to the phone. House might want to wallow in self-pity for now, but maybe he’d be able to deal with reality later. At least, Wilson hoped so.

While he waited outside for the taxi he’d called, huddling in the cold and rubbing his arms to maintain at least the semblance of warmth, Wilson weighed his options. It was too late to go back to the clinic. And Wilson wasn’t even sure he should follow his original plan. Should he go ahead and get the abortion, or should he wait at least a day or two and give House some time to get over his bout of denial?

His nose had lost all sensation and his toes and fingers were heading towards the same fate when the taxi arrived. “Cold night,” Wilson said. Certain habits, like small talk, stayed with him even under stress. Or maybe he was craving company.

The taxi driver grunted. His friendliness matched the day, Wilson supposed. He settled back into the hard leather seat, staring out at the small-town lights. Most of the time he found Princeton-Plainsboro quaint and cozy, but some nights it seemed downright gloomy.

Why _should_ he wait? House was right, this was up to him. Wilson had already decided that even if House wanted the kid, he wasn’t going to go through the pregnancy just for him.

Now that Wilson thought about it, he didn’t know why he had expected House to want the kid. He’d probably prefer a second infarction-- House would consider being a father just as crippling. All play and no work, that was House, and kids were more work than play.

Had Wilson _wanted_ House to want a kid?

The car stopped suddenly and, to keep from crashing into the seat in front of him, Wilson had to throw his hands out forward. “That’s $16.47,” the driver informed him. “Hope you got change.”

Numb, and not so much because of the cold, Wilson paid him.

He’d at least wanted to talk to House about it-- the possibility. Then he wouldn’t be so alone in this. He was terrified at the thought of being pregnant, but he wouldn’t have been terrified alone, if House hadn’t decided to retract into his shell.

You don’t want this kid, Wilson insisted to himself. First thing tomorrow, he would go back to Irvington Clinic and put an end to this.

 

**day 08**

The following morning, there were two messages on his cell phone. Both were from Cuddy.

So House hadn’t tried to contact him. It was still early. Wilson didn’t, after all, have to go running out the door. He could wait a bit longer. Better safe than sorry. No need to be rash or anything.

He blew a small fortune on a breakfast set from room service that he left half-eaten. It was too soon, he knew, to be nauseated, but his body begged to differ. He tried to force himself to finish off the eggs, but it was as if his stomach felt more repulsed by the reminder that he _shouldn’t_ feel pregnant.

Wilson further delayed his departure by bathing, but that didn’t last long. None of his showers since his transformation had. After having had so much sex, he ought to have gotten used to his changed body, but it was different, somehow, when he was with House. When alone, he was embarrassed. With House, he’d been appreciated. Wilson found it hard to hate his body when it was being admired.

Now he was alone and further away from House than ever, and that made it worse. Because he wasn’t dealing with some alien body anymore; these parts of his had memories. Applying soap to his pits made him think of how House, crazy as he was, had insisted on smelling them. His tense shoulder blades appreciated the water pressure of this shower-head more than the one in House’s apartment.

Wilson stayed long enough to wash his hair and run soap over himself.

After that, he made himself go out. If House was going to shut him out, that was his choice. Wilson couldn’t keep chasing after him. It was simple: he had to get this over with as soon as possible.

The bus interfered with that plan by being late. Wilson could tell already that Murphy’s Law would be in full effect today.

A son and her mother sat in front of Wilson on the bus. Of course. He moved a few seats up so as to not have to look at them. He could not, however, ignore them altogether. The son was too loud for that.

“And so then he pulled out the gun, you should have _seen_ it, it was like a laser only faster, and he shot twenty bad guys _in one go_ and it was so _good_\--”

The kid was pretty obnoxious, in an innocent kind of way. Wilson made a point of listening as a reminder of why he wanted the abortion. Children were all very nice in theory but in practice, they were hardly all sugar and spice. That still didn’t shake off his unease, though.

Three stops away from the clinic, the mother and the son got off. Wilson looked away but the glimpse he got revealed that they’d been holding hands. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d held someone’s hand.

He shifted in his seat. The clinic hadn’t seemed so far away, yesterday. Almost two stops away. He had to get this over with, he reminded himself. Just do it.

Two stops away and he found himself off the bus.

The moment Wilson stepped off, a cold wind blew and he had never felt so dumb. Why was he hesitating? He knew what he wanted. This should be easy.

He waited for the next bus and forced himself to get on it. Wilson was about to pay the fare to the driver but then he stopped again. “Are you paying or aren’t you?” The driver asked, annoyed.

“S, sorry,” Wilson stammered. “Wrong bus!” He clambered off.

God, what was he thinking? Better yet, what was he _doing_? This was a no-brainer and yet he couldn’t pull it off.

He couldn’t even board the next bus.

Instead, Wilson stepped into a café to get out of the cold and gather his thoughts. He watched busses and families pass by and, as his coffee lost its warmth, Wilson realized that he hadn’t been so set on his decision after all.


	3. Chapter 3

**PART III**

**day 09**

Back in the hotel room, flipping through a copy of Dr. Spock’s “Baby and Child Care,” Wilson heard someone knock on the door. He jumped and went towards it but, on second thought, returned to the book and shoved it into a desk drawer. The person knocked again. He ran back to the door and plastered on a nonchalant expression as he opened it.

It was Cuddy.

The thing was, Wilson was pretty sure that he was more shocked than she.

“Oh,” she said, “that explains a lot.”

His boss had seen him as a woman. He’d only felt more exposed that day in high school when someone had stolen his towel in the gym. At least there was no laughter this time, just Cuddy’s curious gaze.

“W, what are you doing here?”

“What do you _think_, I’ve been hounding you for the past week. Can I come in?”

“Oh! Uh, please do.”

By habit he watched her legs as she walked in. They had been one of his favorite pieces of eye-candy for years, and he found that they still did it for him. Not as much, but he still found them sexy. Great, he got to be a bi woman; as if his sexuality wasn’t confused enough as it was.

She turned around, arms crossed. “Where have you been?”

He couldn’t believe she was asking this. Wasn’t it obvious? He pulled out a chair for her but she remained standing. “You can see for yourself that I’ve been, uh, incapa--”

“You must wonder how I get out of bed every morning,” she interrupted.

He sat down on the side of the bed. “…Actually, I don’t.”

“Then how is being a woman an excuse to skip work? Did everything you learn in med school go flying out your head?”

“No, but--”

“Do you remember how to use a stethoscope? Can you still analyze an x-ray?”

“Cuddy, my _sex_ changed! My credibility would be shot if I came in like this.”

She narrowed her eyes. “If that’s how you feel, I have some sexism workshops for you to attend.”

Wilson covered his mouth, horrified. “I’m not saying--”

“It sounds that way.” She sat down on the chair he had offered her earlier.

“But you have to admit, Cuddy, there’ll be talk! What will people think?”

“That you had a sex change, which is true enough. They’ve said worse about you, I’m sure. And have you forgotten how many on our staff are transgendered? Shall I tell them that you think they’re, what’s the word you used, not credible?”

He blushed. “Again, I’m not-- I didn’t choose this. And it’s temporary.”

“How temporary?”

He glanced at where he’d hidden his evening reading material. “It-- it might be a while. I’m not sure.”

“Well, that settles that.” Cuddy nodded. “I can’t have my head of oncology out of commission just because he’s a woman. You’re going to be in at nine am sharp, or earlier, if you prefer. You’ve got a lot to catching up to do.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. “And that’s that, huh.”

“It is,” she affirmed, “though you might want to find a moment to find something that fits you better. People are vicious about how we dress, unfortunately.” She flashed him a sympathetic look, as if she knew all too well about that viciousness.

He looked down at his slacks and shirt. While they fit him fine as a man, they were now a couple of sizes too large. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Okay.” She leaned forward, her smile growing. “Now, you’ve got to tell me, how did this happen?”

He better get used to this. “It just kinda… did. And now it’s, uh, not going away. Complications, you know.”

 

**day 10**

Wilson checked one last time: his foundation was in good condition, as was his eye-shadow, but his lip gloss was wearing thin. He applied another layer. Stepping out of his car, feeling another shiver as the panty-hose stretched against his smooth legs, he straightened out the front of his grey power suit.

If he was going to do this, he was going to do this _right_.

He stumbled on his high heels-- still wasn’t used to them-- but walking at a slower pace kept him from repeating this mistake. Stand tall, he reminded himself; stand tall.

A security guard stopped him at the parking lot exit. “Excuse me, ma’am, but you parked in the wrong--”

He’d been expecting this. Cool as could be, he pulled out his Princeton-Plainsboro Hospital ID. “That has my parking lot number.”

The security guard squinted at the photo, then at Wilson, then at the photo again. “This isn’t you.”

“It’s just a little mascara-- what difference does it make? I’m still James Wilson. Can’t you tell by the cheek bones?” The security guard didn’t look convinced. “If you like, we can call Dr. Cuddy, I’m sure she’ll love to know why you’re harassing me for wearing a skirt. Here, I have her number on my cell phone, we can talk to her right now.”

He handed Wilson back his ID card. He’d probably decided it wasn’t worth provoking the irritation of the Dean of Medicine. “That’s alright, sir-- ma’am--”

Wilson flashed his brightest smile. “Thank you.”

As he walked away, he prayed that he wouldn’t stumble again.

He had a long day ahead of him.

\-----

People were watching.

Wilson could tell, even if he didn’t allow himself to look anywhere but forward.

The patients and their families paid him no attention. To them, he was just one more woman. It was the people he worked with, day in and day out, that were gaping. No one came up and said anything, however. They stayed in the background, just watching.

They would do more than look, soon.

Wilson walked into the first-floor conference room. Most of the other board members were already there, talking amongst each other and not bothering to look up. Wilson sat in his usual place and arranged his notes. He preferred it this way. He wasn’t going to call attention to himself if he could avoid it.

Dr. Parker, head of the Pediatrics Department, rushed into her regular place next to Wilson. “Not late, am I?” she asked and then let out a small exclamation. “Oh!”

“Good morning.” Wilson replied, as if nothing were out of the ordinary.

At that moment Cuddy came in and, with a wink to Wilson, started the meeting.

“Well!” Parker leaned over to him and whispered, “I like the new look.”

Wilson smiled and scratched the back of his neck. “I thought I might have gone a little heavy on the eye shadow.” By now the others in the room had noticed that Wilson wasn’t quite what he used to be and were doing the jaw-dropping thing. But then Cuddy cleared her throat and they turned, with some hesitation, their attention back to her. With the exception, that is, of Parker.

“I do that all the time! But you’re looking good. Say, Wilson, you’ve always been a cross-dresser, haven’t you? It’s okay, you can tell me.”

Wilson had been wondering how people would interpret his new look. Vote one for cross-dressing. He had about one second to decide how to present himself to the rumor mill. “A man doesn’t give away his secrets.”

Let them make out of that what they would; it wasn’t as though everyone wouldn’t make up a thousand different versions anyway.

Afterwards, Cuddy patted him on the back. “See, that wasn’t so bad, was it.”

He stared at her. “I’m just getting started though, aren’t I?”

\-----

Sometime between the stares, the questions, and the actual work, Wilson took a break in the place he’d been thinking of since yesterday, when he first realized the extent of his doubts.

He didn’t dare pass the giant glass divider, so he stood on the outside, gazing in. He didn’t know what he was supposed to feel, but he did know that he was too petrified to go any further.

Wilson heard House before he arrived-- that three-thudded step was one of a kind. But Wilson stayed where he was, neither moving nor looking towards him.

House joined him at his side. “That’s a butt-load of babies,” he declared. Although the words were of a joking nature, his voice belied a sort of wariness. Wilson glanced at him. His face, somewhere between pale and ashen, was lined with wrinkles deeper than ever. He had to be recovering from a Vicodin and booze binge.

“It sure is,” Wilson agreed.

House grunted in reply.

Wilson hated this awkwardness between them and fished for something to fill in the silence. “Why did you send Cuddy my way?”

House turned towards him. “How did you know?”

“How else would she have found me?”

“True.” House looked away again, eyes scanning the rows of cribs. “I got tired of her hounding me about where you were. So I spilled the beans.” He paused for a moment. “It wasn’t because I was worried or anything, if that’s what you were thinking.”

“Never.” Wilson assured him, but he knew better. House might claim not to care, but that was only because pretending not to led to fewer responsibilities. Now that Wilson was no longer as panicked as he’d been during their last confrontation, he could remember this fact.

But even if House cared, it might not be enough.

They lapsed into silence, staring at the row after row of babies.

It was funny, Wilson thought without seeing the humor, how the two of them had spent days without any respect for each other’s personal space-- kissing, touching, fucking-- and now they could barely approach one another.

Whatever path Wilson ended up taking, he didn’t want to lose House. And if it meant that he had to be alone in this particular decision, so be it. It wasn’t as if he weren’t used to House being unhelpful. “It’s okay, by the way,” Wilson said, still looking straight ahead, “if-- if you want to stay out of the picture. Consider yourself outside the frame.”

“Yeah, about that.” House made a sound that could have been a cough. “I don’t know if that’s going to work.”

Wilson felt his spirits rise but he tamed any hope he might have. “Why?”

“I’m stuck in the photograph, whether I want to be or not.”

This was promising, but Wilson was still wary of what was coming next. “So your hands are unwashed, after all.”

“Dirtier than the dirt they scooped up.” House glanced at said hands. “Not that they haven’t always been filthy. How does all that grime get under my fingernails?”

Wilson was tired of communicating through clichés. He wanted a straight answer. “Okay, good. Now what?”

“I’ve thought about it and I’ve decided that your having a kid is a really, really, _really_ dumb idea.” House stared straight into Wilson’s eyes, unwavering and determined. “You should get that abortion.”

“Oh.” Wilson didn’t want to be in front of all those babies anymore. He went down the hall, out of the maternity ward and towards something more innocuous, like the nephrology wing. “If you had just _said_ so from the beginning, that wouldn’t be… an issue right now.”

House caught up and grabbed him by the arm, and Wilson hated how that only made him want to be hugging House instead. Desiring any physical affection with House, in the long run, was foolish. “You’re not-- you said it yourself, you were gonna pull the plug. You’re not--?”

Wilson dared neither meet his gaze nor look away, so he just closed his eyes.

He felt both of House’s hands on his shoulder now, but they were at arm’s length apart, and there was no comfort in this touch. “That’s _idiotic_, Wilson, you have to know that.”

He shook House off him. “So call me an idiot. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“If you’re even _considering_ being a mommy--”

“Keep it quiet, won’t you? Do you want everyone to know?!” Wilson hissed.

House lowered his voice, “--it’s because you got a ticking biological clock, free of charge, with your ovaries. Maybe right now you’re thinking, ‘Ooooh, a baby! That’ll make my hotel room a little less lonely! I can have that family _without_ those pesky wives!’ But the minute you turn back, you’ll wonder what the hell you were thinking. Call it temporary insanity.”

“Thank you so much for filling me in on my feelings,” Wilson said frostily.

“_Someone_ has to set you straight.” At Wilson’s dour expression, House continued. “Look at it this way. You’re thirty-seven, Wilson, your spring-chicken days are over. You know what risks you’d be exposing that chick to.”

“Many women have children at an older age,” Wilson defended.

“And thanks to them we know how stupid that is. Do you want me to run down a list for you? Down’s Syndrome, premature labor, depression--”

“Don’t you think I know?” Wilson sighed. “God, House-- I thought you didn’t want anything to do with this.”

“If you’d _given_ me more than two seconds-- but, no, it had to be right this instant. Well, now I’ve had another two seconds to work with, and I realized-- that thing,” House waved at Wilson’s midriff, “if you have it, is going to run around with _my_ genes. And when it looks up at you one fine day and asks, ‘where’s mommy?’, you won’t have an answer, because it doesn’t have one, but tell me if you can fool yourself into believing that you wouldn’t spit out Daddy Number Two’s name.”

Wilson laughed, bitter. “I get it. It’s not because you’re worried about me or about the kid, you just don’t want to be bothered.”

“You asked if I wanted it. Now you know.”

Wilson knew that House had a point-- he had every right to give his opinion. And even if Wilson didn’t like the answer, it was better than the no-comment response House had first given him.

However, Wilson was no longer willing to base his decision on what House wanted. It’d still be a vital factor, of course. Not so much because it’d mean that he’d be a single parent-- even if House was willing to be a father, Wilson knew that he’d still do the vast majority of the raising himself-- but because he knew that this could destroy their friendship. Wilson could imagine House moving to another _country_ just to get away.

He would have to think about that.

But for now, he wanted to placate House. “Look, if it makes you feel any better, I might run out in the next half hour and-- and end this.”

“But you might not.”

“I might not.”

House tapped his cane against the ground. “That doesn’t make me feel better at all.”

\-----

It took forever, but it was finally time to go.

Wilson had gone through a full day. He’d caught up on two weeks’ worth of missing work, fielded personal questions from everyone he’d ever known, his back was killing him, and he was at odds with House.

Wilson was more than ready to go ‘home.’

He was pressing the button to close the elevator doors when he noticed a man was running to make it in time for the ride. While Wilson was tempted to close the doors anyway since he wanted to get out of here without having to explain himself once more, that went against his upbringing, so he pressed the ‘open’ button.

“Sorry,” the man said, entering the elevator.

“No problem,” Wilson said. He looked a little familiar, but Wilson couldn’t quite place him. He hoped that they weren’t actual acquaintances, since that would up the chances of being questioned about his sudden transformation.

“I-- aren’t you Dr. Wilson?”

So much for remaining incognito. “I am.”

He smiled-- shyly, Wilson realized with bewilderment. “Excuse me. We haven’t met but I’ve heard-- you know how people talk.”

“I sure do,” Wilson sighed.

“But they didn’t tell me how beautiful you are.”

Wilson couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. But from his expression, the guy was expecting some kind of big, appreciative reaction. Wilson was torn between staring in shock and laughing, so he did both.

God, he’d used that line before on women. Had they thought he’d sounded this ridiculous? But-- ridiculous or no, it was nice to hear. Much nicer than some of the other things he’d been hearing today.

“I mean it,” the man insisted, “You’re beautiful. You should be proud; not everyone gets such a successful sex-change operation. Ah, this is my floor-- it was good meeting you.”

Wilson stared as the man left. There really _was_ a taste for everything.

\-----

Wilson tried to ignore his usual disappointment that no one was waiting for him back in his hotel room.

The first thing he did was pry off his high heels. _Damn_ those hurt and he had to wear them again tomorrow. He must be out of his mind, just as House said. “You’re causing a lot of trouble,” he admonished his abdomen.

And then the fact that he’d just talked to a fetus sank in. “Oh, this is going to do wonders for my sanity’s reputation,” Wilson muttered. “You know what’s worse? It just proves House right. Couldn’t he be wrong once in a while?”

But even if House had been right about Wilson being tempted to have a child because it was an escape out of an empty home, that didn’t mean it was a _bad_ reason. If Wilson wanted more than he had, and if it was within his reach, how was that wrong? “Let’s keep this conversation thing a secret between the two of us, okay?”

Wilson slipped out of what he thought of as his ‘female costume’ and into a much more comfortable set of McGill sweatpants and shirt. He settled at his desk with a copy of “Thinking Ahead: Saving For Your 21st Century Baby,” a calculator, his account book, and graph paper. He wasn’t going to make any decisions until he was sure he could give his child everything it needed _and_ pay all three of his alimonies.

 

**day 12**

“Hey,” Cuddy said, closing the door behind her. Wilson held up his hand in greeting. “Wanted to check up on you, seeing how you _might_ be having some adjustment issues.”

“Now that you mention it,” he said, pulling on a poker face, “there was this incident--”

Arms crossed, Cuddy replied, “Oh?”

“Just this morning, I was in the bathroom--”

“Which one?” Cuddy stayed on her feet, and Wilson couldn’t help but wonder how she could resist the temptation to sit. He avoided standing at all costs and yet her heels were _higher_ than his.

“The female one; everyone kept whistling at me when I went into the men’s room.” Which was true, as was the fact that he wouldn’t run into House in the women’s bathroom. “And so there I was, and, wouldn’t you know, the other ladies _weren’t_ talking about me.”

She laughed. “What _were_ they talking about?”

“Some nurse sleeping around with all the lawyers.”

“Well, that’s how it is with women. Either everyone is insulting the hell out of us, or we don’t even make it on people’s radars. But--” Cuddy dropped the joking tone. “Seriously. Nothing you want tell me about?”

Wilson smiled. “Thanks, but no, not really. My patients, for the most part, care more about their cancers than they do about me, the staff is too polite to give me outright grief, and everyone else just assumes I’m butch.”

“I’ve noticed you and House aren’t getting along,” she said, point-blank.

Wilson winced at her bluntness. So that’s why she was here. House always came first; something he should have learned by now, especially after Tritter’s investigation.

He understood her concern, but he was going to keep the details to himself. “We’re not seeing eye-to-eye at the moment.” Though, to be more accurate, they weren’t seeing much of each other at all. After their last discussion, they hadn’t even so much as talked to each other.

“Great.” She shook her head. “He’s been-- you know.” She picked up a box of paper clips from his desk, fiddling with it. “He’s been House. Only more so.”

Wilson could imagine. “Yeah.”

“What, did you two sleep together and then fight?”

Wilson jumped in his seat. “What--”

“That’s what I thought.” She put the box back down. “Now, I don’t know why you’re fighting, and frankly, I’m not sure I want to. Whatever the reason is, it’s hit him hard and now he’s hitting everyone _else_ just as hard. You have to make up with him.”

Wilson felt a rush of guilt at this reminder of how his selfishness was hurting House. “Easier said than done.”

“Don’t I know,” Cuddy sighed. “Just-- do something. Anything.”

The topic finished, she was about to leave, but there was something he needed to ask _someone_ this and, sad as it was, he couldn’t think of anyone else. “Listen, Cuddy.” He paused. How could he phrase this without giving himself away? “Have you ever not been sure if you wanted something?”

“Well, if you’re going to be that unclear, then, yeah, I have-- me and everyone else in the human race. Care to be more specific?”

“I-- I can’t, not really. But there’s some…thing I could have, and I’d given up on it a long time ago, but now it’s a possibility again, and I don’t know if I actually want it or if it’s a substitute for something I can’t have.”

Cuddy looked confused. “Is this about House?”

“K, kind of.”

“Um, from the _very_ explicit explanation you just gave me, it sounds like you just haven’t let yourself admit that you want this Super Vague Thing.”

“Yeah,” and Wilson, behind the desk, where Cuddy couldn’t see, cradled his stomach. “That’s what I’m thinking it is.”

 

**week 3**

Photos of women with varying sizes of expanded abdomens lined the walls, like an exposition on pregnancy. They made Wilson feel full, as if he was in danger of bursting with his two-week fertilized egg, but he couldn’t quite look away, either.

“Good afternoon,” Dr. Miyamoto said, offering her hand to Wilson.

“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” Wilson said, shaking hands over her desk. “I know how crowded an obstetrician’s schedule can get, especially one as popular as you.”

“Not at all. Have a seat, please, Mrs. Wilson--”

“I’m not married,” he said, sitting facing her. Behind Miyamoto were her framed degrees and awards, summarizing a history with which Wilson was already familiar, having read up on her background. He had searched for the best within the region.

Besides those documents were more photos. One in particular stood out to Wilson: it featured a naked woman, one arm supporting her heavy breasts and the other her protruding belly. She must have been at eight, nine months of pregnancy.

“Oh, sorry, I just assumed--”

Wilson tore his attention away from the photo and smiled. “Sometimes I myself am rather astonished that I’m not married. I always rather thought myself the family type.”

She brightened up. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You’re rather lucky; most women your age that come to see me are trying to _get_ pregnant. Many don’t get that far.”

“To be honest, I wasn’t quite-- planning this.” His eyes flicked over to that photo behind her. He tried to imagine walking around like that-- albeit not quite as naked-- and what it would mean: back pains from the deviated spine, being unable to look at his feet when standing up, varicose veins, having to urinate every hour, and all the other things he could look forward to if he continued on this path.

It wasn’t anywhere near as frightening as Wilson thought it should be.

Miyamoto nodded. “It must have been a shock.”

“A-- a bit, yes.” No need to go into details. “I-- have a number of concerns, not the least of which being the-- my-- child’s physical well-being. I know my age makes me a statistical trap for certain complications.”

“That’s something we’ll keep an eye on. It’ll take another few weeks before any defects are detectable, but when the time is right, we can give you some of the earliest available tests-- ultrasound, a CFTS -- and then we’ll have a good idea of your baby’s condition. And we’ll keep track of your health as well-- you’re facing some risks of your own, you know. Gestational diabetes, miscarriage, pre-term birth...”

Hearing all this calmed Wilson. While he already knew and, in fact, had passed this information to innumerous patients in the clinic, confirmation from a specialist reassured him. While spontaneous sex changes were unheard of, being a pregnant woman, even at thirty-seven, was old news. He knew what to expect. Medicine was on his side.

“In the meantime, you should be taking folic acid, multi-vitamin pills and--” Miyamoto glanced over her shoulder where Wilson kept looking and smiled fondly. “That’s a former patient of mine; she gave that to me five years ago, when she was having her first child. She came to me for her next two.”

“It’s a beautiful photo,” Wilson said, to be polite, but he wasn’t lying either.

“I hope we can get you that far. Now, before we can run any tests we’ll need to go over you and your partner’s medical history…”

\-----

Back in the hotel that evening, Wilson triple-checked the lock on his door and closed the blinds on his window. On further thought, he turned off his cell phone. Together with his privacy, he needed a minimum of distractions.

Wilson made a point of turning on all the lights, from the weak overhead ones to all the lamps. The room took on a soft glow.

He removed all of his make-up, going so far as to wash behind his ears to eliminate his perfume’s odor.

These preparations done, he opened his closet door, which featured the closest thing he had to a full-length mirror. Wilson stood still before it for a long while, just looking. Then, one by one, he began to strip himself of his garments: his dress shirt, his long skirt, his bra, his pantyhose, even his underwear.

Even now, so early in the pregnancy, he thought he could detect changes. Then again, up until now, he’d refused to take a closer look, so perhaps he was only now seeing some of his female body’s characteristics. His areolas were a darker brown, the tips of his hip bone were not as prominent, and he felt more bloated. Other than that, he was the same. He was a long way from being like Miyamoto’s patient, in that photo.

“This next part is going to be weird,” he warned the general vicinity of his belly-button. “I know you’ve got the awareness of a rock, but, uh, try not to pay attention anyway.”

Wilson took a deep breath and made himself start.

He massaged one breast, giving his nipple a tentative pinch. That hurt, though, so he settled for a gentle rub instead.

His other hand trailed around his ribcage and traveled downwards, past his stomach and around his thighs. You’re just getting acquainted with your body, Wilson reminded himself. Nothing to be ashamed of.

After some procrastination, his hand reached his crotch. He explored down there, getting to know himself on a level more personal than scientific labels. This lip, wide and pliable, didn’t feel anything in particular, whereas stimulating this tip made him horny. And here--

Wilson thought back on what his female lovers had liked and what he himself had enjoyed when House had touched him.

His reflection was becoming very, very flushed.

Closet door still open, he sat on the side of the bed, the springs resistant against his weight and the covers cool beneath him. After hesitating, Wilson splayed his legs open. He had to get used to himself, physically and visually. He had to see it all-- the purples and the browns and the rouges.

If he was going to stick around as a woman, he had to accept his whole body. He should have done this weeks ago, but only now, as he grew more accustomed to the idea of pregnancy, was he ready to become intimate with himself.

Wilson ran through an old favorite: Cuddy wearing nothing but her lab coat and high heels. And that was okay; it was comfortable in its familiarity. But maybe it was too familiar, because though the fantasy _was_ increasing the intensity building up in his nerves, it wasn’t doing enough. He needed more.

His thoughts turned to House-- House thrusting into him, House’s brow furrowed with concentration as he tried to get Wilson off-- but Wilson didn’t want to go there. Those memories were filled with emotional traps and he wanted this to be a positive, untainted experience.

So Wilson alternated between fantasies of fucking both men and women, whispering dirty words and coming--

He fell back onto the bed, convulsing.

“I could get used to this,” he said out loud, his fingers playing with his wetness, soaking up his one-person afterglow.

 

**week 4**

Papers littered House’s desk. Wilson watched, not without reluctant fondness, House absorbed in his reading. “You know what’s funny?”

Realizing that he had an audience, House shuffled the papers into a single pile. “No, Wilson, I do not. Do let me know what’s funny.”

“When I got back the results from Dr. Miyamoto, my obstetrician--”

House, leaning back in his chair, made the slightest nod. “Her article on analgesia for labor indicates that she’s not an _absolute_ moron.”

“Thanks.” Wilson stepped from out of the doorframe and into the office. “So as I was saying, when I got them, I put them in a safe place. Do you know where that would be?”

House leaned back even further, pressing the tips of his fingers one against the other. “Why, I do not.”

“Between pages 914 and 915 of my neuro-oncology encyclopedia, and I think you knew that, House, because they’re no longer there.” Wilson picked up the topmost page from the stack. “Oh, look at what I’ve found, page three of my urinalysis.”

“Oh, you meant _those_ results,” House said in mock-understanding. “I have no idea how they ended up there. Really, color me clueless.”

Wilson tried not to smile. House’s attempt at nonchalance had been discredited enough, there was no need to rub it in. “You could have just asked, you know.”

House avoided his gaze by fanning out the papers across his desk. “The _plan_ was to nab them while you were out, sneak them back in, and you’d be none the wiser. But of course you’d be all obsessive-compulsive and check on them constantly-- I haven’t had them for more than a half hour!”

“Forgive me for getting in the way of your spying,” Wilson teased. House glared at him before going back to studying the papers. “So. What do you think?”

“Your pH is a little high, don’t you think it’s a little high? Sure it being high once doesn’t mean much but if it stays--”

“A pH of 8 is fine, it’s well within desirable parameters. If you’re going to nitpick, find something worth arguing over.” House didn’t answer and kept rereading all those numbers. “I thought you were going to stay out of this,” Wilson commented, trying to sound nonchalant.

“If you’re going to be so stupid as to go through it with it, I’ve got to make sure that the other doctors don’t fuck it up.” Wilson again resisted the urge to grin. “And that includes you! Right now you’ve got the judgment of a mentally deficient gerbil.”

“Thank you,” Wilson said, because House’s insults meant nothing, not when he was showing this much concern for his well-being.

“Let’s get this straight--” House pointed at him. “I’m still against this.”

“I know, I know,” Wilson said. “I haven’t forgotten.”

“Good.” House went back to scouring the stats. Wilson figured this was as good a moment as any to ask. “Is it because you don’t want to be a father or because you’re too scared?”

House held his head between his hands. “Look. Let me put it this way. My grandfather was an ass, my dad was an ass, I’m-- you get the idea. It gets passed down in the family.”

“So… you’re scared.”

“Sometimes, Wilson,” and House suddenly seemed old and weary, “there are good reasons to be scared.”

Wilson would have loved to ask what he meant by that, but he knew from House’s guarded expression that this discussion was over.

 

**week 7**

After that, if some things got a little worse, other things got a lot better.

Wilson woke up one morning with the undeniable urge to vomit, and he did so. He got a few bites down at breakfast and a couple of hours later he was running to the bathroom to bring it back up.

Though he hadn’t mentioned it to anyone, the next day he discovered on his desk a can of ginger ale, several packs of dry crackers, and a dozen bottles of water. To some people, these items might have seemed odd and bizarre, but Wilson recognized them as typical anti-morning sickness treatments. He smiled to himself.

He dropped by House’s office later, shaking one of the water bottles. All that House would say, refusing to admit to the delivery, was, “Dehydration’s a bitch.”

Instead of thanking him, Wilson opened the bottle and took a few sips, which mollified House. They went out for lunch for the first time since the sex change and, okay, so maybe Wilson threw back up the water and food, but it was the thought that counted.

In his seventh week of pregnancy, Wilson went for an ultrasound. He would have invited House, but he didn’t think he would be into that. It was one thing to fuss over your sort-of best friend’s health and pore over test results, searching for something wrong-- House considered it a hobby to point out other people’s errors. It was another altogether to anticipate a child.

Wilson did, however, share the results afterwards. “Look, it’s _not_ an ectopic pregnancy,” he declared, waving the sonogram in front of House.

“Wilson,” House said, almost sounding satisfied, “this saves me a break-in!” He snatched the sonogram and held it up to the light, squinting.

“Figured I’d help keep your violations of the law down to a minimum. See anything suspicious?”

“Besides the fact that you have a uterus?”

“Hah hah.”

House examined it some more, from this angle and then that one. “Well, there _is_ something--”

“What,” Wilson asked, his heart beating three times as fast. He had studied every single centimeter on that image; had he missed something? Was his child already deformed--

“It’s an _ugly_ little fuck, isn’t it.”

And Wilson laughed, he laughed and laughed and laughed, and the next thing he knew he was kissing House, and it was then that he realized that he was head over heels for House and had been for years now.

It was a short kiss, spontaneous in the beginning and self-conscious by the end. When they parted, Wilson’s face was burning with embarrassment but he took pleasure in the tenderness of House’s expression. “So, um. Everything alright otherwise?” Wilson asked.

“Yeah. It is.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Part IV**   
**week 8**

Wilson fled House’s office after that, lest he be tempted to take the moment any further. Wilson didn’t think that kissing could lead to anything good-- having sex in the first place created enough confusion, thank you very much. Maybe in the long run the results would be positive, but Wilson thought it wiser to not tempt fate twice with the same hedonistic stupidity.

It would be better to keep things simple.

As simple as possible, anyway.

Wilson didn’t avoid House, per se; he just maintained a personal bubble of at least two feet around him. If it were up to Wilson, there’d have been chicken-wire separating them and armed sentinels guarding the perimeters.

House, for his part, seemed amused by Wilson’s panic. Once he caught on to Wilson’s desire for distance, he played with that. No more than a couple of days later, House called to Wilson in the hallway. “Question,” he said, walking straight into Wilson’s enlarged personal bubble. “Got an over-the-hill guy in with tachycardia and dyspnea; I’m thinking heart cancer.”

“Yes, my mind always jumps to cancer when their heart beats fast and they have difficulty breathing,” Wilson replied, automatically taking a step back.

Of course, House came closer in response. “He’s also been really jumpy and nervous-- can’t stand still for a conversation.”

By the time they’d traveled halfway down the corridor, Wilson realized that he _himself_ was the over-the-hill guy and that House was deliberately forcing him backwards. “More likely this guy thinks you’re a pain,” and Wilson left before he was made to go through the whole hallway in an unintentional moon walk.

The next time they met, Wilson tried stepping to the side instead, but that wasn’t much of an improvement; it only made them go in circles.

Wilson wanted to stop the mock-chase and give in. He did.

But what kind of a future could he expect from House?

Assuming that House even wanted to pursue a long-term relationship, he still wouldn’t want to raise the child he’d fathered with Wilson. Bad enough that Wilson was going to be a single parent; imagine how much more confusing it’d be for the kid if daddy were still with ‘mommy.’

Whatever they did, it’d have to be short term. Wilson had been there, done that. It was nice, but not enough.

He loved House too much to let himself sleep with him again.

**week 9**

“Sign here.”

“Who is it from?” Wilson asked, accepting two heavy, arm-length-sized packages. The delivery guy shrugged.

But it wasn’t as if it were a great mystery. Who else but House? From the weight, Wilson guessed they were packed with books. He could see the titles now: “The Pitfalls of Raising a Family After Thirty,” “Single Parenting: Why Bother?,” and “Depositions on the Traumas of Having a Doctor for a Father.”

Or they could be filled with crackers and water bottles. Wilson did still get the occasional bout of nausea, and saltine crackers had been the one thing to tone it down. “Let’s see if we can figure out the method to his madness,” Wilson said to his deaf and dumb audience of one. Setting the packages onto the bed, he cut through the tape of the larger one.

Inside was a microscope, the type one might find in any high school lab: grey metal, an oblong base, and a pair of revolving lenses. Its highest resolution was a joke compared to what the hospital had to offer, but Wilson suspected that this wasn’t meant for him. Together with the microscope was a wooden box holding slides and envelopes with various materials, such as colored sand and ash.

It was as if it were organized for someone just starting to learn about science.

Wilson laid the microscope onto his desk and opened the other package. It contained an oak box, solid and beautiful. Inside of that, nestled in foam, were a dozen test tubes, glass tubing, litmus paper, and labeled jars filled with liquids. A quick glance revealed that there were, amongst other chemicals, calcium oxide, sodium carbonate, tannic acid, and ammonium chloride.

As far as chemistry sets went, it was pretty basic-- but it was a great starting place. Together with a good book, or, better yet, a good teacher, someone using this could experiment more with solutions than most students in a public school.

Where did House find these? Wilson imagined him looking over every microscope, rejecting this one because the light was too weak and that one because the lens-switching mechanism wasn’t smooth enough.

The chemistry set would have required more examination still. House would’ve had to make sure that it contained the right chemicals. And, these days, you couldn’t buy a chemistry set in a box like this. House might have very well had to mix and match to get the set just right.

A lot of care went into this package.

This wasn’t the action of a man who loathed the thought of being a father. On the contrary; no one would have put this much thought into a present if they didn’t care about the recipient.

Wilson felt a lump rise in his throat.

He had to see House. He had to see him now.

 

\-----

House was confused to find Wilson on his doorstep. “What are--” he began, but he stopped short when Wilson placed his palms on either side of House’s face and pulled him in for a deep kiss.

When they separated for air, House had another question: “Is this a mood-swing-induced booty call? Because I’m cool with that, but I’ll need some warning before you get weepy or pissed or--”

“Just shut up, House,” Wilson murmured and closed the door behind him.

This could very well be a mistake, Wilson knew. Scratch that; it _had_ to be a mistake. But right now, Wilson could care less. He’d been wanting House, in all ways possible. And if Wilson crumbled at the first flimsy sign of caring-- well, he was weak like that.

Wilson went to the bedroom and stripped away each item of clothing until he was bare before House. He stood tall, not hiding a single thing, not even the tell-tale swell of his stomach, refusing to feel shame.

It was almost a challenge: can you handle this? Can you handle _me_?

At first House just looked, guarded and silent.

Wilson met on his gaze straight on.

House wrapped his arms around him, and it wasn’t until then, when his muscles unclenched and he breathed again, that Wilson realized just how nervous he’d been. Wilson returned the hug, holding House tight.

“You look better this way,” House said, voice low. “Without the cross-dressing.”

Wilson laughed and was glad that even with so much changed between them they could still joke like this. “That’s because you like your women naked.”

“Seriously.” House breathed in deep, and Wilson wondered if he was smelling his hair. Whatever it was that he was doing, House must have liked it, for his erection against Wilson’s hip hardened. “No need to deny your man-roots.”

Wilson might have asked for an explanation, but he was more interested in the way House was groping his ass. They kissed again, lips bumping against each other as Wilson peeled House’s t-shirt off.

They fell onto the bed, rolling this way and then that, and Wilson laughed again, thrills running through him from their wrestling. This was so much better than fighting! Wilson was hooking a leg around House’s waist, pulling him in, but House stopped him. “Hold it, I’m still not optimally dressed for this operation--”

House stripped off his pants and boxers and, god, Wilson was almost embarrassed at how turned on he was at the sight of a naked man. Had he always been this attracted to males, and was he only now letting himself realize it? Or was it due to his female body?

While Wilson was getting lost in the maze of sexuality, House had been busy procuring lube and a condom.

That was odd. “Scared of knocking me up a second time?”

“You’re _pregnant_,” House said, climbing back onto the bed, running his hands up and down Wilson’s side. “I’m not taking any chances.”

“What, am I going to give you cooties? You’ve seen my ten thousand test results, you know I’m clean.”

“I mean--” House took a deep breath. “We can’t risk-- you know. The hell-spawn.”

House’s abashed expression was one of the most beautiful things Wilson had ever seen. Wilson kissed his face all over, as if he could forever preserve the memory of this moment with his lips. “Just for that, you get to top.”

House held back a moan, Wilson could tell. “Can’t-- crippled, remember? My cane-- the literal one-- is no help with missionary.”

“You should get a refund.” Wilson moved so that they were side to side, with House half-leaning on him, half-not. “That better?”

House tried the position out. “All gimp systems are a go.”

Wilson squeezed House’s hand and reached for the condom, ripping the packet open. House rolled it onto himself, and Wilson, after warming up the cold gel with his hands, coated him with the lube. Again, Wilson didn’t think he should _want_ to touch someone else’s dick, but the fact was, in the heat of passion, he did.

And then House was slipping into him, and they were groaning and kissing and licking and it was all Wilson could do to keep from coming, right away, as their sweaty bodies slipped against one another.

House started to mumble, and though Wilson was too overloaded to make sense out of the words, he soaked them up, feeling loved. He wanted House in deeper and deeper until he was filled with him, as if to unite them for once and for all, because Wilson knew that, even as they were twined like this, this was temporary. However much they were connected now, it couldn’t last. To make up for it, Wilson held House tighter still.

And then Wilson realized that he himself was letting out a steady stream of words, brainlessly, like a motorboat. He had to stop, before he let out something House wouldn’t be able to handle. He considered kissing House-- that would shut himself up-- but he wanted to keep on hearing him, even if he couldn’t understand what he was saying. So Wilson pressed his lips up against House’s shoulders, silencing himself.

As he came, Wilson mouthed House’s name against his skin.

House himself came before long and collapsed against Wilson. “Hallelujah for mood swings,” House said, nuzzling the base of Wilson’s neck.

“Hmm,” Wilson replied.

They lay like that, breathing against one another, their sweat drying.

A hint of a smile played on House’s face. Wilson, having recovered his mental functions, decided to take advantage of House’s relative mellowness. Peeling off the condom off House and throwing it into the nearby trash can, he asked: “Don’t think it’s a little early to pick out chemistry sets?”

House stiffened. “Is that what this is about? If that’s all it takes to get into your pants, I’d have done this _ages_ ago.”

“C’mon. Why the care package for Burgeoning Scientists?”

“It’s called an impulse buy.” House shifted so that he was on the bed instead of Wilson. “You should know about that, I hear the urge is stronger for those with vaginas. I was online, saw some stuff, and I thought, why not? I charged it to my credit card and forgot about it in five minutes.”

Wilson wrapped an arm around House’s waist. “The chemistry set looks like an antique. Did you have one like it when you were a kid?”

House bit his lip, but at Wilson’s insistent look, let out a sigh. “Fine. I did. Happy? I spent a whole summer doing chores to work up the money for a bike, only then we had to move and my parents told me to pack light. Not that it matters.”

Wilson nestled his face against House’s chest. So the present _had_ been a callback to his past. “How about a microscope? Had one of those?”

“Nah.” House seemed to have relaxed again and was twisting his fingers about Wilson’s hair. Now that the worst was over-- admitting that the present hadn’t been a random purchase-- it was easier to talk about. “Never could afford one.”

“Look at you,” Wilson teased. “Spoiling him rotten and he’s not even born yet.”

Frowning, “Keep talking like that and we’ll see how much more spoiling I do.”

Wilson stopped. He knew not to push too hard, too fast.

Wilson didn’t think that he could ever expect much from House, in terms of raising a child. Perhaps House would do his part when it suited his convenience and whims, but otherwise, Wilson knew he’d be on his own.

But it was wonderful having hard evidence that House cared about the child as something besides a medical mistake that needed to be corrected. Even if House never did anything beyond buying the sporadic present that said more about himself than his child, Wilson considered it tremendous progress.

Wilson fell asleep lying on House.

It was the best night’s rest Wilson had had in years.

**week 10**

Wilson sat in the empty seat across from Cuddy, laying his good tray onto the table. “Hi,” he said, but rather than answer, she stirred her orange juice with a straw and studied him. “What, did I get food on my face already?” He asked, running his hands over his mouth.

“You slept with House again.”

Good thing he hadn’t tried eating anything yet, or else he’d have choked. “How do you _do_ that?”

She tapped her head with an index finger to indicate what great things were stored inside. “It’s a talent. That and,” she rolled her eyes, “House was singing Gershwin tunes; it’s a dead giveaway.”

“Ah.” Wilson stabbed at a tomato slice. “I’ll have to have a word with him about that.”

“It’s not _quite_ what I had in mind when I asked you to make up with him--” Cuddy said, formal, as if she had no emotional involvement in the matter. Her being this business-like somehow only made Wilson feel worse. “But if it keeps him from making the interns cry, I guess it could be worse.”

“You know me,” Wilson said, wanting to keep the conversation more light and less mortifying, “doing my part to keep the hospital from falling into chaos.”

“So,” Cuddy sipped her juice, “Had fun?”

From her grin, Wilson concluded that the lecture was over and she had moved on to ribbing him. He decided to give back as good as she did: “It wasn’t bad. How about you?”

Cuddy scoffed, as if the mere suggestion was ridiculous, but Wilson held his ground, not taking it back or laughing. She maintained her poker face, though. “What, is that what he told you?”

“Believe it or not, in this case, Stacy’s got the bigger mouth,” Wilson said.

“Now _I’m_ the one who needs to have a word with someone,” Cuddy muttered, pushing her empty plate away. “Well,” she sighed, “That’s one cat out of the bag. It wasn’t the smartest thing I ever did, I can tell you that much.”

“Funny,” Wilson raised his eyebrows, “I was about to say the same thing.”

She laughed, and Wilson was glad that they had found common ground. She asked, with perhaps too wide a smirk, “Does he still talk non-stop the whole time?”

Gossiping with his boss about sleeping with House might not be all that wise, but Wilson couldn’t resist the chance to commiserate. And it wasn’t as if they’d never before mocked House together. “He doesn’t so much talk as monologue-- and half the time he’s insulting me!”

She snorted. “You’re lucky; he got upset because I wouldn’t reply.”

“Did he used to get up every couple of hours to pee?”

“Yep, and of course he woke me up every time, turning on all the lights, thumping to the bathroom, and _leaving the door open_.”

“Oh, god,” Wilson shook his head, but smiling anyway, “He hasn’t changed one bit.”

“He drove me crazy,” Cuddy reminisced, then started to clean up, putting her plate and utensils back onto her tray. “Still does.”

 

“Me too,” Wilson said, “me too.”

 

**week 11**

Wilson, out on his office’s balcony, leaned against the mural and enjoyed a rare bit of midday winter sun. It’d been a while since he went out there, since the space had been off-limits during his fight with House.

But now-- he and House were doing okay. More than okay. When House joined him outside a few minutes later, Wilson welcomed his presence. “Hey.”

House scrutinized Wilson’s head, as if the sunlight had revealed something new. He ruffled Wilson’s hair, pulling the strands between his fingers. “Time to mow the lawn.”

Wilson brushed his hand away. “I’m growing my hair out.”

“Oh, _come on_, you’re taking this girly-look thing too far.”

Wilson glanced down at his grey skirt and his matching sandals. He’d given up on the high heels because they’d been hurting his back too much, in conjunction with the back pains from pregnancy. “I think the girly _body_ was what went too far. Now I’m just playing the part.”

“You do realize that just because you’ve got a pussy doesn’t mean you’re actually a woman, right?” House asked, pained. “And even if you were, that it doesn’t mean you have to dress like what you _think_ a woman should.”

Wilson shrugged. “Unlike you, I like to look nice.”

“What you mean is, you like to fit in. God forbid you don’t meet everyone’s expectations.”

“Oh, like you don’t you do your part to maintain a macho image.”

“Yeah,” House flexed his arms, knitting his forehead in fake concentration. “Fabio _wishes_ he were me.”

“Seriously,” Wilson said, “Stubble and jeans with a t-shirt? Doesn’t rank as one of the strongest protests against gender stereotypes. The day you come in to work in a dress, _then_ you can rag at me for conforming.”

House drummed his fingers and frowned. “That’s different.”

“Yes, it tends to be.”

Wilson knew that he’d won that round because House approached the argument from another angle. “You can’t actually like those things you’re wearing, or you wouldn’t change into sweats the moment you get home.”

“Don’t like blow-drying my hair either, but I still did that when I was guy,” Wilson pointed out.

“Freak.”

“Slob.”

“Apple-polisher.”

“Provocateur.”

They smirked at each other; they could keep at this all day long.

**week 12**

“So--” Wilson read from the file. “Chris, you’re here because of a cough and-- a stomach ache?” He looked at his clinic patient, a tall scrawny teenager who, judging from his outfit, thought that purple and green were an acceptable match. As if on cue, Chris let out a cough.

It sounded like Lyingitis bought on by a severe case of No Wanting To Go To School. Wilson had seen thousands of such cases over the years and would have preferred to send the kid out so that he could see someone who _did_ need a doctor, but he should at least ask some preliminary questions. “How long you have had these symptoms?”

“Um, a while,” Chris said, cracking his fingers in rapid succession.

Well, if he was this nervous, Wilson thought that there might be more to this than just playing hooky. He should give the kid a chance to say what was on his mind. Wilson pulled on his stethoscope, “Here, take a few deep breaths--”

Wilson was listening to Chris’ lungs, which were in pristine condition, when Chris, with a strangled voice, asked, “W-- what’s it like, then?”

“What’s what like?” Wilson asked, still with the stethoscope against Chris’ chest.

“You know.” Chris licked his lips. “Being a woman.”

Oh.

Hooking the stethoscope around his neck, Wilson took a couple of steps back, placing his hands onto his hips. “That’s-- an open-ended question. Anything in particular you want to know?”

“Um,” Chris swung his skinny legs off the examining table, his big feet smacking against the floor. “Forget I asked, it’s stupid--”

“Sit down.” Chris did so, sitting up straight and rigid. “What do you really want to ask?”

He scratched the bump in the middle of his nose. “My mom is a nurse here and she said that-- you know. You’re a. A.”

Because he seemed incapable of finishing that phrase, Wilson did so for him. “That I used to be a man.”

Chris managed to light up and blush in one go. “Exactly!”

“Okay. Well. Um.” Wilson started to speak off the top of his head. “The clothes are uncomfortable, for some reason everyone assumes I’m married--”

“That’s _it_?”

Noticing how disappointed the kid looked, Wilson tried to dig for something more profound. There was the pregnancy, but he wasn’t ready to tell anyone about that, and there were his newfound uncertainties over his sexuality, which were too personal to share.

And-- there wasn’t anything else. He was who he’d always been.

He turned the questioning back to Chris. “Why are you asking?”

Swallowing, “I, um, I was-- I’ve never really felt-- you know. Right. The way I am.” Wilson nodded. “And I-- I don’t know. I didn’t think it was possible, but you-- you did it. You changed.”

Wilson was half-tempted to tell Chris to eat all the raw clownfish he could get his hands on, but he knew that that was no real solution. “A sex change is a pretty radical move, though. You might want to talk to a psychologist before you decide--” At Chris’ sudden horror, he amended, “It doesn’t mean that you’re crazy. Just that you need some help understanding yourself. Okay?”

Chris still had a petrified expression as he left, gripping in his fist a piece of paper with the names and numbers of local psychologists, but what more could Wilson do?

What a sham. Wilson hadn’t wanted this sex change-- had never felt out of place in his male body-- yet somehow he’d become a role model to those that did.

 

**week 13**

“She’s late,” House growled. He kept pacing, going from the ultrasound machine, checking its model for the umpteenth and then back to the door to see who was coming down the hallway.

“Because _you’re_ the king of timeliness,” Wilson said.

“I could be doing this _myself_.“ House opened drawers and cabinets, as if he were looking for the instruments to do so.

“But, see, we hired this other doctor, so we’ll let her do it.” Wilson was determined to be patient with House. This was, after all, House’s first public admission that he was going to be a father. Of course House would be in full pain-in-the-ass mode.

He was glad, though, that House had insisted on coming to the nuchal translucency scan.

“Hi,” Miyamoto said when she arrived. “Sorry I’m late--”

“Instead of being sorry, you could have been _on time_.“

Miyamoto was taken aback by House but, seeing that Wilson was also there, seemed to put two and two together. “You’re the father?”

House and Wilson answered simultaneously, their voices overlapping: “Unfortunately” and “I’m afraid so.”

Given how Miyamoto didn’t have much of a reaction besides a short laugh, Wilson supposed that they must not be, in fact, the strangest pair she’d ever encountered. So there was that, at least.

House criticized Dr. Miyamoto over every detail, from how she applied the jelly onto Wilson’s abdomen to her measuring technique. If this didn’t irritate Wilson more than it did, it was because he understood how appalling it was to seek deformities in your own offspring. If Wilson himself wasn’t more agitated, it was because House was with him, sharing the anxiety.

House gripped Wilson’s hand so hard it hurt, but Wilson didn’t say so. He didn’t want House to let go.

While they waited for the official results, House started to calculate the risk factor himself. By the time he reached the ratio of 1:30, they received the print-out confirming as much.

“Congratulations!” Miyamoto said. “We’ve pretty much eliminated the likelihood of your baby having any genetic disorders.”

“There’s still a 15% chance it has one,” House snapped.

“Yes,” she said. Wilson smiled in apology at Miyamoto. She smiled back, as if to say: Doctors! Don’t worry, I’m used to it. “We’ll continue to monitor you throughout your pregnancy, of course, but this is very good news. Your baby is healthy.”

Wilson, overwhelmed, closed his eyes.

His baby was healthy.

Thank goodness.

\-----

That night, in unspoken celebration, they tried out something new.

House lay on his back, head and ass on separate pillows, with his legs spread open. “Face-up,” Wilson teased, “so intimate.”

House squirmed, embarrassed with the veracity of the statement, but he didn’t change position. “It’s so you can see the pain and horror etched on my face when the trauma renders me speechless.”

Wilson squeezed his knee. “That would be more convincing if you didn’t have a hard-on the size of New York City.”

House frowned. “You’re fat. Have I told you that? _Fat_.”

Wilson was adjusting the harness to his body, already knowing how much to tighten each strap. He’d been practicing ever since he remembered Stacy telling him about this particular kink of House’s. “Fourth time since yesterday, I think.”

“Good. So long as you know.”

Then again, during one of those times House had been caressing Wilson’s stomach with one hand and fingering Wilson’s pussy with the other, whispering about how hot he was, so Wilson had taken it as a compliment.

Wilson secured the final clasp and was ready to go. Having a long, hard phallic object growing from his crotch was a familiar sight, though his dick had never been _this_ purple.

He thought that having a dick again, fake or not, might remind him what being a man was like, but it didn’t make all that big a difference. He felt like he always had, except comic. His swollen waist and enlarged breasts, clearly revealing his pregnancy, contradicted whatever manliness the strap-on might have made him feel.

“Hey, hard-on the size of NYC is _waiting_,” House reminded him, raising his hips.

“Right.” Wilson sank down onto the mattress and kissed him, slow and gentle. At first House acquiesced to the pace, but soon he was tonguing him insistently, pushing his cock against Wilson’s dildo. “Greedy,” Wilson licked House behind the ear.

“Just fucking _fuck_ me already,” House moaned.

If House was this willing to take a phallic bit of plastic up the ass, maybe they _could_ have some kind of future, once Wilson turned back. Assuming that Wilson was still attracted to him and dicks _not_ on chicks also turned House on.

These sexuality questions made Wilson’s head spin.

Wilson watched, mesmerized, the expression on House’s face as he slid the strap-on into his ass, centimeter by centimeter. House’s breathing had slowed down to a heavy, deep pant. Stroking his face, Wilson asked, “You okay?”

To emphasize his point, House pushed up against Wilson, taking in more of the dildo. “I would be, if you’d _hurry up_.”

That was hot. That was really fucking hot.

Wilson pulled out and shoved back in, faster, as per request. It was like driving blind in a brand new car: his brain remembered the motions, but the controls were in the wrong place and didn’t do what they were supposed to. And while the dildo’s pressure against his clitoris tantalized him, it transmitted no sensory information. It was weird to fuck without feeling each and every centimeter of his dick.

But whatever Wilson was missing in pure sensation, witnessing House’s open vulnerability more than made up for it.

“To the right-- up, up, oh _god_,” House’s eyes closed, and Wilson knew he’d hit the jack pot. “Oh, fuck yes, just like that, oh, fuck--”

For a grand finale, Wilson grasped House’s balls and watched as his spunk spurted onto the both of them. Arching up, high, House let out a long, low moan straight from the gut.

Wilson pulled out and started to undo the harness’ straps, but House, laying his hand over his, stopped him. “I-- not yet.”

Wilson raised an eyebrow. “Shall I go in to work tomorrow like this?”

House smirked. “Now _there’s_ an idea-- but for now,” he said, running the tips of his fingers of Wilson’s hip, “Diddle with the dildo.”

“I used to be normal, you know, before I met you,” Wilson complained, but he was already settling against the pillows, grasping the base of his strap-on.

“Yeah right,” House snorted.

He masturbated that way, rubbing the base of his dildo against his clitoris, under House’s unwavering gaze. Wilson blushed the whole time, from both embarrassment and arousal. Was this at all gay? In the beginning, Wilson thought that having sex with House as a woman might still be considered as ‘straight’ behavior, but-- this wasn’t heteronormative, was it. Wilson wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

**week 14**

“What did you need to see me about?” Cuddy asked. They sat on the sofa set next to her office’s entrance, leaning towards each other.

“I--” Wilson had rehearsed this conversation in his head countless times and had even written up a list of possible openers. “I’ve been researching the hospital’s maternity leave policy--”

“Why? What do you know?” She asked, suspicious.

That wasn’t anything like any of the reactions Wilson had expected. “Well-- nothing, that’s why I looked it up.”

“Oh-- you mean for _you_?” Her pitch went up high on that last word. “Are you-- Wilson!” She hugged him and he returned the favor, taken aback by her excitement. “Congratulations! I never thought--! When are you due?”

“Mid-August, hopefully.”

“Is it a boy? A girl?”

“We couldn’t tell from the last ultrasound. But-- I think it’ll be a boy.” He hadn’t meant to confide that to Cuddy, but her enthusiasm was contagious. No one else, so far, had this been so happy for him. “I have a feeling about it.”

“That’s great,” Cuddy said, smiling wide. “Have you picked out a name?”

“Not yet.” Wilson hadn’t let himself think of names up until now and risk any more attachment than necessary. But now, things were different. He could start making concrete plans. “I’m going to get a baby name book. Maybe ‘Richard,’ but I bet House--”

“_House_?” She shook her head. “What am I saying, who else but House. Good luck with that.”

“It was an accident,” Wilson defended himself. “In fact, I wasn’t even sure I’d keep it.”

“Oh?” Her warmth became cold in a split second. “You were going to abort?”

Wilson hadn’t been expecting _that_ reaction either. “Yeah, but-- I want it. Richard, that is.” It felt strange to say the name out loud, even if it wasn’t a definitive one. “I just completed a CFTS exam, and there were no defects or problems to worry about. He’s in perfect health,” he said, with a touch of pride.

It might have been his imagination, but he thought that Cuddy look wistful. “Why’d you change your mind?”

How well everything was going. How positive Wilson had been feeling with Richard, talking to him everyday. How his financial calculations showed that he’d be able to provide clothes, food, shelter, college. How it was a forgotten dream come true.

And, even if Wilson didn’t want to admit to it, it was because he was now closer than ever to House. “The fact that I couldn’t find a reason _not_ to.”

She squeezed his hand. “I’m glad for you, I really am. Even if you could’ve found a better father.”

“Cuddy, forgive me if I’m assuming too much--” Wilson hesitated. “But are you trying? To get pregnant, I mean.”

Her cheer melted into a mixture of sadness and longing. “For a year now.”

One whole year in which they’d seen each other almost every day and he hadn’t noticed. Even when all he could think about was pregnancy and babies, he still hadn’t picked up on it. How unaware he was. “I’m sure you’ll get there. Somehow.”

She let out a deep breath. “Did you know? When I first decided to have a child, I was going to ask you to be the father.” He stared at her, incredulous.

He hadn’t been unaware. He’d been _oblivious_.

Cuddy chortled, maybe at his disbelief or to cover up the awkwardness, and he let out a snort of his own. The next thing he knew, they were laughing their heads off. “Oh, god,” Wilson wiped at his eyes, “The thing is, if you’d asked? I’d have probably agreed.”

“Yeah, I know. And look at us now-- the pregnant man and the barren woman.”

How was that fate Wilson had intervened in such bizarre ways to get him pregnant, while Cuddy, who wanted a child, had to fight for one? “Life makes no sense,” Wilson offered.

“Tell me about it.” She made a brave attempt at a smile. “I’m going to go for a second artificial insemination soon, let’s see if life doesn’t start making sense then.”

This time, it was Wilson who squeezed her hand.

 

**week 15**

House came up from behind, putting his hands onto Wilson’s shoulders and interrupting his perusal through Craigslist. “Richard?”

Wilson twisted his head to look up at House. “Oh, Cuddy told you that?”

“_Richard_?” House repeated.

“What of it?” Wilson turned back to the screen.

“Have you no creativity? We could name him Junior Bob, or Hemraj, or Boston, my god, the things we could name him, and you want _Richard_?”

“It’s generic. You can’t go wrong with generic,” Wilson clicked on what looked to be a promising entry.

“But you sure can go boring.” House complained, but he couldn’t have been too upset because he started to massage Wilson’s back, his thumbs digging into his shoulder blades. “Whatcha looking at?”

“Apartment listings.” Three bedrooms in a flat downtown, just what Wilson had been seeking. He started to write out the phone number. “I’d rather not raise Richard at the Marriott.”

House stopped massaging and snatched Wilson’s pencil. “What’s wrong with this place? There’s a roof here and, last I checked, it’s not leaking.”

Wilson looked at House and then around the apartment. “House, _you_ live here.”

“And?” House crossed his arms, still holding the pencil hostage.

Did Wilson have to spell this out? “Then _we’d_ be living together.”

House threw the pencil over his shoulder. “Which is what we’re doing now, isn’t it?”

“No, I just haven’t gone to sleep at the Marriott for a month now. We’re not living together.”

“We should.”

Wilson stared at him. “You realize that once he’s born, you’d have to deal with pre-dawn screaming, bins full of diapers, vomit on everything you own, including your vintage record-player--”

House simulated shock by covering his mouth. “Babies vomit? What news.”

“House,” Wilson argued, “He’d chew on your _Nikes_.”

“I’ll buy a new pair, that’s what money is for. And chewing toys, too, we don’t have to be stingy.”

Wilson got to his feet and touched one of House’s arms. “You couldn’t live with us and _not_ do some parenting, you realize.”

House snorted, covering Wilson’s hand with his own. “We both know you’d do all the hard work.”

“Have you even _thought_ this through?”

“You’d stay in my room, of course--”

“I’ll be a man again,” Wilson reminded him. He hadn’t forgotten being made to sleep on the couch when House thought he was going to change back his male body at any minute. And however much House liked getting fucked with a dildo, that didn’t mean he’d want the same with an actual dick.

“Big deal--” and, at Wilson’s skeptical expression, he amended. “It’s not that big a deal, you’ll see. Over in the back,” and House motioned with his chin, “with all the books, we can stick in a crib. It’ll be small but junior will have to learn to deal with harder things in life; he might as well suck it up.”

Wilson couldn’t believe he was hearing this. He looked for signs that House was about to crack up and admit that this was all a prank. “What’s gotten into you? Has all the sex warped your mind?”

House shrugged. “Dunno. Might not be so bad, after all, having a kid. Even if it’s a Jew. _Would_ he be a Jew? It gets passed down through the mother, but you’re not really a mom.”

“He’ll be a Jew if he wants and stop pretending to be anti-Semitic to change the subject. Are you _sure_ you’re up for this?” Wilson asked, still incredulous.

“If I weren’t a cripple, I’d pick you up and throw you on to the bed and show you my conviction.” House waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

No matter how hard Wilson looked for a sign that House didn’t mean it, he couldn’t find one.

House was being _sincere_.

Wilson wanted to ask House what had happened to all those fears that had paralyzed him just weeks ago, but-- why do that? No need to wake these sleeping lions. If House was willing to go this far, Wilson wanted him by his side.

Wilson hooked his arm around House’s. “Not that I think demonstrating sexual prowess is any way to prove conviction, but go ahead, show me.”

Worry still pooled at the bottom of Wilson’s stomach. It was one thing to give presents and get worried over Richard’s health. He didn’t think that House understood what parenting, full time, would entail. House had to be thinking of all the games and the smart things Richard would do and glossing over the rest.

Things were getting _too_ good. It couldn’t last.


	5. Chapter 5

**Part V**   
**week 19**

House burst into Wilson’s office. “You can’t tell them,” he ordered.

“Tell who what?” Wilson rose. He had an idea of the ‘what’: Richard was moving in him now, in reaction to Wilson getting up. But the ‘who’ could have been anyone. “About the pregnancy, you mean? That might be hard, considering that this lump here will only grow. And _you_ see how easy it’ll be to keep mum once I pop a baby out.”

Paying Wilson’s remarks no attention, House paced in short, erratic lines. “It’d be best if they didn’t see-- they’d ask questions-- pity I can’t lock you up-- what am I saying? Forget that last part.”

Wilson was surprised that House would retract that statement. Suggesting locking someone up wasn’t the worst thing he’d said this week alone. Why would he get worked up over that?

Wilson tried to calm House down by pulling him into an embrace, but House shook him off. “Just stay out of sight.”

Irritated by the rejection, Wilson bit out, “Sure, I’ll just hit myself with my invisibility-ray and we’ll be all set.” House threw him an exasperated look. “Maybe I’d be more helpful if you clued me in.”

“The less you know, the better,” House said darkly.

But Wilson found out before long.

Because becoming invisible was neither viable nor reasonable, Wilson went through his schedule like it was any other day, making the effort to be more discreet than usual. He was in the clinic and had just said goodbye to the fifth influenza victim of the afternoon when he heard a knock at the door. “Come in,” he said, expecting the next patient.

Instead, Blythe House came in.

Wilson blanched.

No more questions on the ‘who,’ then.

He tugged down on his blouse in a futile attempt to lessen his stomach’s bulge. His pregnancy wasn’t obvious yet and maybe she’d assume that, even with a sex change, Wilson was incapable of bearing children.

“Hello, is James--” Blythe looked at Wilson and then around the room. “I’m sorry, I thought--” she turned around, and Wilson saw John House behind her. “I think we’re in the wrong place.”

Either Wilson could let them leave and have them find out elsewhere that they’d been the right place after all, or he could tell them who he was. Either way, they’d find out and House would kill him.

But what was Wilson trying to hide? So he was a woman right now. He’d long since decided he wasn’t going to be ashamed over that fact. Nor could House’s parents forever remain ignorant to their grandchild’s existence.

He should, at the very least, let them know who he was. “If you were looking for me--”

Blythe eyed him. “Is that you, James?”

He tried to be charismatic despite his embarrassment. “I like to think so.”

“Well-- Greg didn’t mention--” she said, gracious enough, but still not knowing how to end that phrase.

John stayed in the doorway. “Hey, how’s it going,” he said, eyes darting away and back again at Wilson.

“That’s House for you, keeping all the juicy news to himself.” Wilson held out his hand, hoping that normal social interaction would lessen the awkwardness. He couldn’t blame them for being so shocked. They were from a different generation, after all, when gender expectations were more rigid. “It’s good to see you again, Blythe, John.”

That did seem to put John a little more at ease. Maintaining a jovial tone, Wilson asked, “So, what brings you to town?”

“We decided to spring a surprise visit on Greg,” Blythe explained. “He never comes to see us, you know, and we wanted to see how he’s doing.”

“Have you seen him already? I could help you find him--”

His attempts to drive them away were not, however, successful. “We just saw him, actually. We came down here to invite you to go to dinner with the three of us.”

Forget murder; House would keep him alive for the next twenty years just to torture him, if Wilson accepted the invitation. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly barge in on your time with him--”

“It’d be our pleasure,” Blythe insisted.

“I actually have a lot of paperwork to get through tonight,” Wilson excused himself. “So--”

Blythe did, Wilson noted, seem disappointed. “If you change your mind, you’re still welcome to come.” Wilson thanked her and, with a stiff nod from John, they parted.

House found him afterwards, as Wilson left the clinic. “What did you tell them?”

“They’re out buying ‘congratulations!’ balloons for you right now.” It could be fun yanking House’s chain, and, oh yes, was House’s chain yanked. House went through several states in a couple of seconds, from shock to denial to pissed off. “I told them nothing, what did you expect?”

“Maybe you’ve decided to tell any and everyone about your unnatural spawning.”

Wilson sighed. “No, I did not tell them that their son is going to have a son. That’s _your_ duty.”

House’s eyes shifted away, to look downwards. “Yeah, well--”

“Maybe this is a good thing,” Wilson suggested. “You can spend time with them and--”

“And what?” House cut him short. “Remember the past? Face my ghosts and see that they didn’t do such a bad job after all, and that I’m going to be a super great dad?”

“When you put it that way--”

“It sounds ridiculous, right? Because it is.” House must have noticed that Wilson thought he was acting immature, as he went on to say, “You think I’m freaking out over nothing? Come to dinner tonight and see for yourself.”

 

\-----

They went to the restaurant together after work, in House’s car. Wilson rambled off light conversation, but House was non-responsive, barely making any sounds of acknowledgement.

Wilson found himself covering his stomach with his arms, seeking either to protect or take comfort from Richard.

Upon arriving at their destination, Wilson reached out again to House, touching his hand. “House, I--”

And already House’s hand was out of his grasp. “Let’s get this over with.”

With a sigh, Wilson followed him into the restaurant.

Blythe beamed at her son and greeted Wilson. John shook Wilson’s hand with a firmer clasp than earlier that day and patted House on the back. House nodded in response with a flat “Hey.”

They sat at a table and started up a vibrant enough conversation. But Wilson was still worried about House, who he couldn’t even try to sooth with physical gestures, not in front of his parents. So Wilson watched, anxious, as House grew more reticent.

In all honesty, Wilson didn’t understand the extremity of House’s attitude. Now that John’s shock over Wilson’s transformation had worn off, he made for good-humored company, his speech pattern speeding up as the night wore on and his drinks piled up. Wilson suspected that he might not be entirely sober when he started to recount “Greg’s” exploits in collecting beetles and exploring natural terrains. Blythe listened with a smirk, as if she’d heard already heard these anecdotes hundreds of times.

The conversation drifted towards life in the hospital and Wilson ended up describing some of House’s more notable cases: “It turned out that she was a hermaphrodite-- with testicular cancer.”

John laughed, his already flushed face becoming redder still, and Blythe smiled. “Our boy always was so smart, seeing things no one else could,” she said. House gave her a small, but genuine, smile. For some reason, it made Wilson’s heart ache.

“It’s true,” John mused, “Just wish he’d let us in on these things.”

House’s smile vanished. “Didn’t seem like a big deal. And most of what I do is boring, anyway.”

“You should take more pride in your work,” John chided.

House’s expression became stonier.

“He’s just being modest,” Wilson swept in.

Perhaps noticing how tense the atmosphere had become, Blythe changed the subject. “Tell me, Wilson, where did you get that necklace? It looks like an antique.”

“What?” Wilson still wasn’t used to being asked where he got what; as a man, no one had cared where he’d gotten his pocket-protector or his tie. “Oh, this, um, there’s this second-hand shop in the older part of town--” He was about to explain when John interrupted him.

“You know, James,” John mused, “I never thought you were like that.”

“Like _what_?” House asked, a little too loud.

And of course this would be when House decided to join in. Then again, he _had_ been itching for a fight all day long. Wilson nudged House’s leg beneath the table as an unspoken suggestion to back off. House paid him no heed, anticipating John’s answer.

John shrugged. “You know. Unmanly.”

Wilson winced. Like father, like son: both were too willing to speak their minds.

“That’s a little vague,” House said, almost calm. “Are you calling him a fag? A drag-queen? A tranny?”

Wilson and Blythe shared a nervous look.

John frowned. “There’s no need to speak that way, Greg.”

“I was just following your example. What are--”

Blythe reached over and patted her son’s hand. “Greg, please.”

House scowled but rescinded, biting his lower lip and leaning back into his chair.

Wilson coughed. “Anyone up for desert? I hear you haven’t lived until you’ve tried their mango mousse.”

\-----

Out in the parking lot, while Blythe and House exchanged a few last words, John took Wilson aside. “Sorry about-- you know,” John said, awkward. “I wasn’t trying to be--”

“I know,” Wilson assured him.

John looked over to where his son stood, and his gaze stayed there. Wilson could see the sadness in his expression. “He’s so unpredictable, sometimes. I try my best, but-- I never did figure out how to treat him.”

“He’s a handful,” Wilson agreed.

“Well.” John huffed out a breath of air. “Keep on looking after him, yeah?”

Once John and Blythe left, Wilson started to strategize on how to calm House down after this strained evening, but House spoke first. His voice was gruff. “I’ll give you a ride.”

Wilson’s stomach sank. “Back home, you mean?”

House looked away and, just like that, Wilson knew: they were back at square one. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

House started to hobble towards the car, avoiding eye contact. “I sure _was_ kidding. What a joke, thinking that I could--”

“We’ve been through this!” Wilson blurted. “Not a month ago you were insisting on how much _fun_ it’d be, having a kid, and, what, you change your mind in less than a day?!”

House tried to open the door to his car, but Wilson stepped between them. House narrowed his eyes, and Wilson could see that he’d grown angry. “You’re into psychoanalysis, so you probably know this already, but statistics show that we repeat our parents’ mistakes. Sometimes we even magnify them; their pathos becomes ours and we pass it on.”

“So your dad is conservative _and_ blunt. It’s okay, House, I wasn’t offended. He’s from a different generation, and a Marine at that. It’s understandable--”

House snorted. “You can come up with all the excuses you like, but that doesn’t change how he treats people. Now get out of my way, or do I have to push you?” Wilson could tell that he meant it, so he stepped aside. House sat at the wheel and started the car up. “You coming or not?”

Wilson, with a flash of rage, was tempted to refuse and get to a hotel by taxi. But he wasn’t done with this fight, not yet. He clambered into the passenger’s seat. “You don’t want to be like him. I get that. But how about Blythe? She’s pretty decent.”

“More than decent, but she’s not so great at standing up for her son.”

Wilson remained silent for most of the drive, as he thought that they could take the time-out. But as they approached the Marriott, he broached the subject again, using a gentler approach: “What mistakes are you scared of repeating?”

House didn’t answer at first. “You’ve seen what my family is like,” House finally said, looking straight ahead. “I’m not passing that on.”

“House.” Wilson wanted to reach out and pull House back in. He didn’t know how. “Whatever it is, you could-- you could rise above it.”

House parked on the side of the curb. “Here.”

Wilson glanced at the hotel and back at House. “So this is it? You’re going to give up?”

“I can’t--” House stopped, as if he were blocked. He started up again, more carefully. “I shouldn’t have pretended I could be a part of--” He looked down at Wilson’s abdomen. “You’re better off without me.”

When Wilson didn’t move, House warned, “_Go_.”

This argument was over. Wilson stepped out and watched House drive off into the distance and waited until it was obvious that House wouldn’t return.

What déjà vu.

The worst part was that Wilson had known that anything with House could only lead him back to this place. He’d known this full and well and he’d _still_ let himself trust House again.

What a fool.

“It looks like it’s just the two of us again,” Wilson said to Richard.

\-----

In his new hotel room, Wilson ripped off and threw away his necklace. While he knew John’s comment wasn’t meant to offend, it had still struck a nerve. And, as irrational as it was, Wilson half-blamed the necklace for making House so scared again. Maybe if he hadn’t crossed-dressed-- hell, if he hadn’t decided to remain a woman-- House wouldn’t have left him. A sharp prickling anger made him strip off the rest of his clothing, all of them reminders of that night’s disaster.

Shivering, he turned up the heat and burrowed under the covers.

The issue House raised burrowed through Wilson’s mind, keeping him awake. “Is he right, Richard? Am I fated to screw you up?” he asked, lying on his side, a pillow supporting the weight of his extended waist.

He got a kick in reply, whatever that meant. “You’ll be a great philosopher, I can tell.”

House did have a point. Parents exercised tremendous influence over their children.

“I’m not going to be the worst parent of all times, am I?”

And in his head Wilson could hear House saying that just because he wasn’t the worst, that didn’t mean he was good enough to even rate even an ‘okay.’ To think so would constitute a logical fallacy.

Wilson didn't want to include Richard in this conversation any longer, since there _were_ some things you couldn't talk about to your child, unborn or not, and your worries about their future were among them.

**week 20**

When Wilson saw House next, in the hospital entrance, they stopped in their tracks, several yards apart, and regarded each other for a long time.

And then House turned around and went right into the clinic.

It was better this way. Wilson wouldn’t have even known what to say; his anger overruled his sympathy.

“Jesus, Wilson, not again?” Cuddy’s voice, pained, called from behind him.

“I thought you’d be proud of my efficiency,” Wilson turned to sarcasm; he was in no mood to deal with criticism on his relationship with House at the moment. “Not only did I get dumped, but I pissed you off in the same stroke.”

“If you wanted to be efficient, couldn’t you have done your department budgeting at home instead?” She complained, her arms crossed so that she was hugging herself. But her tone was tired, and she sounded as if she were saying it just because it needed to be said, and not because she meant it.

Wilson noticed then how red her eyes were. “Cuddy-- what happened?”

Tears sprang to her eyes. The hospital entrance not being the best place for an administrator to cry, they shuffled into her office. As she closed her blinds, Wilson asked again what had happened.

“The artificial insemination didn’t take.” She wasn’t facing him, but she sounded choked up. “Again.” Wilson didn’t say anything, deciding to just listen for now. With her back still to him, Cuddy wiped at her face and took a deep breath. “Jeez, look at me, getting so worked up over nothing“

Wilson couldn’t even begin to imagine what it’d be like to lose Richard. It was not ‘nothing.’ “Cuddy. You don’t have to pretend, with me.”

Hugging herself again, she sat along the top edge of one of her couches. While the redness had spread from her eyes to the rest of face, there was no trace left of her tears. “How about you? Fighting with House again? You two need to stop doing that, it doesn’t do anyone a whit of good.”

He shook his head. “It’s not because I want to--” But he couldn’t even try to explain. It was too complicated.

They both fell silent, turning to their thoughts.

“None of this makes any sense,” Wilson mused. “You can’t get pregnant and I’m having a baby I never meant to and that the father doesn’t want.”

“Sure it makes sense,” Cuddy said, bitter. “It’s called ‘life isn’t fair.’”

“See,” Wilson smiled without mirth, “If we got married, it’d solve everything.”

Cuddy stared at him like he was bursting into flames or something, and then, when Wilson smirked to let her know that it was a joke, she burst out laughing. “Oh, that’s hilarious-- I get it, I get it. Yeah, that’d sure straighten things out.”

“It sure would.”

Wilson could imagine it, actually: waking up next to Cuddy every morning and arguing over whose turn it was to check on the baby, going to PTA meetings together and fighting over how to get Richard to raise his grades, and the three of them spending their Sundays lazing around the home.

The vision lulled him, but then again, thinking about new commitments to fill in the gaps in his life always had that effect on him. Come to think of it, if he was starting to fantasize about marrying his _boss_, that was a fair indication of how unhappy he’d become. Wasn’t having Richard supposed to make the loneliness go away?

She got off from the couch. “But it’ll work out, Wilson,” she said, walking back to her desk.

He couldn’t believe that she could be so positive when everything seemed to be going so wrong. “What’re you going to do?”

“I’ll try for a third insemination, and if that doesn’t work,” she spread her arms, indicating the size of her office. “I’m the head of a hospital; it’s not as if I’m lacking for contacts. With one phone call, I’ll be at the top of adoption waiting lists.” She narrowed her eyes, determination writ all over her face. “I’m not giving up.”

 

**week 23**

Wilson received, once again, a set of packages in his hotel room, though this time he didn’t bother to open them. He knew that they were the things he’d left over at House’s over the past few weeks, like clothes, books on raising children, kitchenware, and, he suspected, the chemistry set and microscope House had given Richard.

“I guess he means it,” he said to Richard, who, as he usually did, kicked.

He bought an apartment in downtown Princeton-Plainsboro. It was a cramped piece of space, really, but Wilson didn’t care. If it was going to be just the two of them, it wasn’t as if they needed much room.

“Say hi to home,” Wilson said to Richard, his voice echoing through the empty apartment.

 

**week 25**

That Sunday, Wilson woke up with a low, dull backache.

Being a typical second-trimester pregnancy symptom, he didn’t think anything of it.

He should have been readying his new apartment. At the moment it was furnished with a skeletal outline: a couple of bookshelves, a sofa, and a bed. He had a lot to do, and somehow, Wilson wasn’t feeling all that motivated.

Leaning against the kitchen counter, Wilson was drinking a second cup of instant coffee, trying to summon up the motivation to at least eye the instructions to build the IKEA kitchen table, when his uterus his uterus started to squeeze itself, harsh and unmerciful, as if to expel anything inside it. Wilson doubled over from the pain.

_Shit_.

He sat down at once, leaning against the cabinet beneath the sink, rubbing his stomach. “That was a good one, scaring me like that. Pulling an old Braxton Hicks, right?”

Wilson refused to panic. It probably had been nothing, just a cramp, and the stress wouldn’t do anything to help. He took several stabilizing breaths, drank a glass of water, and stared at the same page of a book for a good twenty minutes, unable to read.

When he felt a second inner clutch, this one longer and more painful than the previous one, he called Cuddy.

“No work today, Wilson,” she reminded him, all cheer.

“I think I’m going into labor.”

Idiot. Idiot. _Idiot_. He’d _known_ the risks of being pregnant at his age. Hell, House and Dr. Miyamoto had both warned him of all the things that could go wrong. And he’d ignored them and the statistics because he was a bloody selfish freak who didn’t want to be alone.

Richard wouldn’t even be able to _breath_, if he came out now.

“What?! You’re halfway through--”

“I’m on my second contraction in the past twenty minutes.”

“Oh, god-- sit tight, Wilson, I’ll get you help.”

“Okay,” he said, and hung up.

He lay onto the mattress he’d set up on his bedroom floor. Cuddy would be here soon, bearing medicine to delay the labor. Maybe she’d even bring some betamethasone to speed up Richard’s lung development, in case it looked as if they wouldn’t be able to keep the birth off for long.

“Hey,” Wilson cuddled his stomach, speaking in the voice he used on patients that needed to be talked out of ridiculous decisions, “Out here? Sucks. I could sit here for the next fifteen weeks telling you all the things that suck, like taxes and going bald, and then you’d begging to stay--”

Wilson felt a third contraction.

_Shitshitshitshitshit--_

Scenarios rushed through Wilson’s mind: Richard asphyxiated, Richard developing RDS, Richard becoming brain damaged, Richard--

But Wilson balked from thinking of the worst.

“Did you _have_ to be as stubborn as House?” he muttered. “Couldn’t you take after some of his less annoying qualities?”

Cuddy was at his door within fifteen minutes, unlocking her way in.

Not that Wilson remembered having given her a key.

Getting up from his bed, refusing to run and further upset Richard into evacuating the womb, Wilson walked towards the door. “Cuddy, what did you--”

But it was House who had come in; House, face pale and hunched over.

Wilson himself paled, in surprise, and then flushed with emotion. “House, what are--”

“Have you had anymore contractions?” House interrupted, grasping Wilson by the arms.

“Had a third one just now. How did you--”

“Cuddy told me. When did it start?”

“My back’s been hurting since I woke up and the contractions started forty minutes ago. Do you two _always_ talk about me behind my back?”

“Probably about as often as the two of you talk behind mine. Do you have a bed in this bare-ass place? You shouldn’t be standing up--”

“I should be getting to the hospital, that’s what--”

“I’ve got some presents to give you first.” House rattled his backpack.

“O, okay. Um.” Wilson went towards the bedroom, still reeling from the contractions and House’s sudden appearance. “How did you even get in?”

“I have a key,” House said, impatient.

“How--” Wilson sat on his bed. “You know what, I don’t even what to know.”

House was rummaging through his backpack. “I brought a variety of tocolytics and I don’t want to hear a single peep out of you about how we have to take all the tests and make sure you’re not in false labor--”

Wilson cut him off mind-rant. “Stop yammering and gimme Nifedipine.”

“_Good_ boy!” House handed him the pills and Wilson dry-swallowed. “Okay, those ought to keep him in there a bit longer. Now, do I have to convince you to take the betamethasone before running through the exams first?“

“What are you waiting for?” Wilson asked, already rolling up his sweatshirt sleeve.

It struck Wilson as absurd that they hadn’t talked for weeks and here was House, injecting him, looking every bit as terrified as Wilson felt. “I thought you weren’t supposed to care.”

“_Someone_ has to save you from your colossal mistakes,” House snapped, pushing the liquid into Wilson.

Wilson looked away. “I screwed up, I know.” It was the closest he could get to apologizing. He’d insisted on the pregnancy and because of it, their child was in danger of being sick or deformed or--

But Wilson still couldn’t let his thoughts go there.

Wilson’s near-apology deflated House. “Don’t make me call you stupid,” House said, his voice raw. He pulled out the needle, his movements gentler than they’d been a minute ago.

Rubbing his arm, Wilson asked, “What-- what do you think will happen to Richard?”

House closed his eyes. “You know as well as I do.”

Wilson’s heart rate sped up three times. Yes, he did know.

At 25 weeks, a baby had, at best, a 63% chance of survival.

Again Wilson made himself take deep breaths, in an attempt to maintain his calm. Stress would speed up the labor. “Well, let’s get me to the hospital, then. I won’t feel safe and sound until I’m surrounded by as many screaming doctors and nurses as possible.”

 

\-----

All of Wilson was numb.

Through his unconsciousness streamed the familiar sound of beeps and machine murmurs, though he was not used to hearing them while asleep.

Wilson forced open his heavy eyelids and blinked his eyes into seeing again. A glass wall, the standard in the Princeton-Plainsboro Hospital’s rooms, separated the room from the corridor. Doctors, nurses, patients, they all walked outside. What was Wilson doing inside, lying down?

He looked at himself. An IV drip was connected to his arm and a patch led from his heart to a cardiorespiratory monitor. Wilson squinted at the figures on the screen: his vitals were a bit low, but he’d been sleeping; that would account for that.

He rolled to his other side, barely sensing the movement-- how jacked up was he on pain-killers, if he couldn’t feel this much?-- and was surprised to find company. _Sleeping_ company.

House sat on a flimsy plastic chair, chin resting against chest and legs propped up on a twin chair. Wilson was worried. Sleeping like that, House would wake up with the worst cramps, and it wasn’t as if he didn’t live with enough pain as it were. There was more growth than usual on House’s face. When was the last time he’d shaved?

Why would House be so worried about Wilson as to stay by his bedside?

And then Wilson remembered.

Wilson scrambled to peel away the layers of covers. Beneath his thin hospital gown, his penis’s outline was visible. Not believing his eyes, he ran his hands over his chest, confirming that his breasts were smaller than they’d been in months. His stomach also was smaller than it should’ve been post-birth.

Bewildered, Wilson slumped onto his back again. Had he imagined it all?

“Wilson?” House asked; the noise must have woken him up.

“W,” Wilson started, finding it hard to speak. “What happened?“

“You fell unconscious and, from what I hear, went back to being a manly man as soon as you popped Richard out. Don’t ask me what it was like, I had to miss out on this century’s greatest spectacle because _someone_ had to keep Richard from suffocating. She’s stabilized, by the way--”

It was a lot of information to receive at once. Wilson grabbed onto the most innocuous fact: “She?”

House shrugged. “Yeah, our baby boy is a girl. Took after you, I guess.”

“Oh, geez,” Wilson curled into himself, pulling his knees up. “I got _everything_ wrong.”

“What, were you betting--”

“This isn’t a joke, House,” and Wilson turned away from him, facing the opposite wall. “I was wrong about everything. You were right-- you warned me that the minute I turned back, I’d wonder _what the hell I was thinking_. House, you were right.”

House paused, perhaps to absorb the full implications of what Wilson had just said. Then, slowly, as if he’d aged several years within seconds, he said, “I wouldn’t mind being wrong, this time.”

 

\-----

The numbness wore off, but not the daze.

Wilson spent another few hours being run through tests to assure that there were no hidden problems, the final verdict being that his stats were virtually identical to those from just before his transformation. It was as if he’d never been a woman. Well, aside from unshaved legs and armpits.

House had wanted to run the exams himself, but Wilson refused to let him; he didn’t want to witness House’s reaction to his non-female body.

Once he received a clean bill of health, Wilson was free to do as he liked. He knew that there was someone he had to see right away, yet the first thing he did was go to his apartment, falling onto his bed and straight asleep.

When he woke up, all he could see were the reminders of his months as a woman: eye shadow in his bathroom cabinet, high heels on the shoe rack, a closet half-filled with maternity clothes.

It felt inappropriate to keep those items lying around. Wilson packed into black trash bags all the clothes and makeup he’d accumulated during his time as a woman. Had he really bought this much? It was as if he’d thought that the changes he’d gone through would be _permanent_.

Is that all that being female had amounted to? A pile of objects?

Wilson meant to drop the items off at a local charity, but he kept putting it off. He’d go tomorrow, he’d go after a cup of coffee, he’d go after this documentary on World War II. It was always ‘later.’ In the meantime, the black bags crowded the entrance, a more conspicuous presence than the individual items within them had been when scattered throughout the apartment.

In the end, he opened the bags, rooting for something he could keep. It couldn’t be any of the shoes, since he wouldn’t fit in any of them, nor the clothes. He settled on some bottles of skin-colored nail polish. He had no idea when or how he could ever use them again, but he didn’t want to let them go, either. He lined them onto the glass shelf in front of this bathroom mirror, like a pathetic minor tribute to the past few months.

His cell phone rang again for the umpteenth time in the past couple of days since he’d left the hospital. The screen declared it to be Cuddy. Actually, _most_ times it was Cuddy. Only the first time, right after he’d left, had it been from House.

Wilson didn’t answer their calls. He couldn’t face anyone right now. What if, like with his body and with the pile of things waiting by the door to get thrown out, Wilson found that nothing had changed? Did he even want anything to be different?

It might be for the best if he and House went to the original mechanics of their relationship. It might not. Wilson had no idea what he wanted or what he could expect.

More confusing than that, though, was the one definitive change from the past few months, the one currently hanging out in the NICU.

God, what _had_ he been thinking?

**week 26**

It took Wilson three days to work up the courage to face the NICU.

It was hardly his first time there, but he’d never been in before to see someone to whom he was related-- and he better not start thinking in those terms, because every time he did, he froze up.

Some of the nurses congratulated him and offered their best wishes, but they were cautious, Wilson could tell. Word of his neglect must have gotten around. Either that or the fact that the new mother was a man again was weirding them out.

She was in a room with another six or so infant care beds. Wilson made sure to not make a sound as he opened the door; the last thing he needed was to wake up a room full of babies.

It seemed, however, that another adult was already there.

With his back to the door, House sat next to one of the incubators, supporting his chin against the curve of his cane. Wilson held his breath, hoping that he might have gotten in unnoticed. And he must have, because House didn’t react to his entrance.

Was House speaking? Wilson tip-toed close enough to overhear the ‘conversation.’

“It’s not that your mommy doesn’t love you, Dick, he’s just feeling guilty and stupid and the sudden lack of estrogen has made his already-pathetically-low common sense go whacko. It’s called ‘postnatal depression,’ but don’t try to say it yet, it’s a mouthful. First you’ve got to get through the basics, like, ‘goo goo’ and ‘bow-wow’ and ‘daddy, I’m pregnant.’ But your time will come, don’t you worry, this kind of thing is genetic. You’ll have your turn.”

Wilson smiled in spite of himself. House was such a bastard. A good-hearted bastard, but a bastard nonetheless. “I think it’s a bit early to diagnose me with post-partum depression.”

House jumped at the sound of his voice but tried to hide his surprise. “When have I ever been wrong?”

“You might want to try it sometime. It’s not as bad as you’d think.” He sat next to House, not yet looking at the contents of the incubator. He had to take this one step at a time. “I never thought you’d be a better dad than I.”

“It’s a sad state of affairs,” House agreed. “I’m not even doing that much-- I come here, make sure she’s not kicking the bucket, and I ramble at her. I ain’t gonna be winning no Daddy of the Year awards no time soon.”

“That’s more than I’ve been doing,” Wilson said, locking his gaze onto the cardiorespiratory monitor. They were just numbers. He could deal with numbers. “Aren’t you still scared of passing on, how did you put it, your pathos?”

House glared. “I’m not _scared_ of it; it’s inescapable _fact_. But between my issues and your absolute neglect, even the former is preferable.”

Wilson couldn’t believe that he had fucked up so much that House, of all people, felt the need to step in and cover up for him. If anyone had been filling the role of the absentee father, it was Wilson. What a time to choose to stick to gender stereotypes.

Wilson hid his face with his hands. “If this keeps up, I’m going to need therapy, aren’t I.”

“That’s elementary, my dear Wilson. You’ve _always_ needed therapy.”

It was so comforting knowing that he’d _always_ been screwed up that Wilson was finally able to look at his daughter.

She was microscopic. While her face was blotchy-red, the rest of her was near-transparent, showing off the veins on her arms and legs for all to see. She was hooked up to every imaginable device: an umbilical catheter, peripheral arterial line, a nasogastric tube, and leads on her chest.

A _cockroach_ could crush her. “What have we done, House?”

“We did what every other loony person has done: perpetuated the inhumanity.”

“Thanks for that bit of positive thinking,” Wilson said, dryly.

“Eh, if things go as they’re supposed to, she’ll be just as loony as the rest of us. She’ll think we did her a favor, bringing her into this world. It’s how it is.”

Given the complications she was likely to develop due to her premature birth-- everything from brain malfunctions to respiratory problems-- Wilson didn’t know how grateful she could be.

Though House might be right and, given his track record, why not trust him on this one? It gave Wilson a crazy bit of hope.

And, no matter what their perspective was, she was here. There was no going back.

“What are we going to name her?” Wilson touched the glass wall of her incubator.

House looked confused. “She has a name.”

“We can’t name her _Richard_\--”

“So she’ll have some gender confusion in her life. What of it?”

Wilson didn’t sigh. This was, after all, what he’d been wishing for, all along: House being active in their child’s life. And if this was the kind of participation he was going to offer, Wilson wasn’t going to object. “Richard it is, then.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [When He Was A Girl (You'll Be A Woman Soon Remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2659) by [thedeadparrot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedeadparrot/pseuds/thedeadparrot)




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